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THE 


COMPLAINT; 


IIGHT-THOUGIITS 


LIFE,  DEATH,  AND  IMMORTALI'IT. 


EDWARD    YOUNG,  LL.D. 


Sunt  lacrymae  rerum,  et  mentem  mortalia  tangunt. 

Virgil. 


NEW   YORK: 

ROBERT    CARTER    &    BROTHERS 

No.    530    BROADWAY. 

1868. 


THOMAS   B.    SMITH,    8TKRE0TYPKR, 
216  WILLIAM  STREET,  N.  Y. 


MfitH 
MEMOIR 


EDWARD  YOUNG,  L1.D. 


Edward  Young  was  born  at  Upham,  near  Wincne&iei  in 
June,  1681.  He  was  placed  by  his  father,  Dr.  Edward 
Young,  dean  of  Sarum,  upon  the  foundation  at  Winches- 
ter College;  and,  in  1703,  was  entered  an  independent 
member  of  New  College.  Afterward  he  removed  to  Corpus 
Christi,  where  he  entered  himself  a  gentleman  commoner. 
In  1708  Archbishop  Tenison  nominated  him  to  a  law-fel- 
lowship at  All  Souls. 

On  the  23d  of  April,  1714,  Young  took  his  degree  of 
bachelor  of  civil  law,  and  his  doctor's  degree  on  the  10th 
of  June,  1719. 

In  1721  he  was  ambitious  of  a  seat  in  parliament,  and 
stood  candidate  for  Cirencester,  but  failed ; — this  curcum- 
stance,  it  is  said,  he  constantly  regretted  in  after  life. 

When  he  was  almost  fifty.  Young  entered  into  orders ; 
and  was  appointed  chaplain  to  George  11.  in  1728. 


MEMOIR. 


In  1730  he  was  presented  by  his  college  to  the  rectory 
of  Welwyn,  in  Hertfordshire;  and  in  the  following  year 
was  married  to  Lady  Ehzabeth  Lee,  daughter  to  the  Earl 
of  Lichfield,  and  widow  of  Colonel  Lee,  who  brought  him 
a  son  and  heir. 

Of  his  wife  he  was  deprived  in  1741 ;  and  to  this  event 
the  public  are  indebted  for  the  composition  of  his  '  Night 
Thoughts ;'  in  which  he  frequently  refers  to  this  afflictive 
dispensation.  He  had  previously  lost  his  daughter-in-law 
and  her  husband,  whom  he  so  pathetically  laments  under 
the  names  of  Narcissa  and  Philander.  It  has  generally  been 
supposed  that  Lorenzo,  the  man  of  the  world,  represents 
his  own  son;  but  (if  he  had.  any  particular  individual  in 
view,)  with  greater  probability,  Young  intended  to  charac- 
terize one  of  the  companions  of  the  Duke  of  Wharton,  with 
whom,  in  the  earlier  part  of  his  life,  he  was  very  intimate. 

This  production  appears  to  have  been  considered  by  his 
author  as  incomparably  his  best  work ;  and  certain  it  is, 
that,  whatever  celebrity  Young  might  derive  from  his  other 
writings,  during  his  lifetime,  to  the  '  Night  Thoughts'  alone 
he  will  owe  his  fame  with  future  generations. 

Dr.  Young  was  a  favorite  of  the  Prince  of  Wales,  father 
of  George  III, ;  and,  for  some  time,  was  a  pretty  constant 
attendant  at  court ;  but,  upon  the  Prince's  death,  all  his 


MEMOIR, 


hopes  of  obtaining  preferment  were  at  an  end ;  and  the  very- 
desire  of  it,  as  appears  from  a  passage  in  the  'Night 
Thoughts,'  seemed  to  be  laid  aside;  however  in  1761  he 
was  made  Clerk  of  the  Closet  to  the  Princess-dowager  of 
Wales,  He  died  in  the  parsonage-house  at  Welwyn,  April 
12,  1765,  in  the  eighty-fourth  year  of  his  age,  and  was  buried 
under  the  altar-piece  of  that  church,  by  the  side  of  his  wife. 
The  turn  of  Dr.  Young's  mind  was  naturally  solemn: 
and  he  usually  spent  many  hours  in  a  day,  when  at  home  in 
the  country,  walking  among  the  tombs  in  his  own  church- 
yard ; — yet  he  was  fond  of  innocent  sports  and  amusements. 
His  wit  was  ever  poignant,  and  always  levelled  at  those 
who  showed  any  contempt  for  decency  and  religion.  He 
was  a  popular  preacher,  and  much  followed  for  the  grace 
and  animation  of  his  delivery.  His  writings  were  numer- 
ous, but  their  uniform  tendency  was  the  promotion  of  vir- 
tue, and  the  discouragement  of  vice. 


THE    COMPLAINT. 


NIGHT  I. 
ON  LIFE,    DEATH,   AND   IMMORTALITY. 


TO    THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE    ARTHUR    ONSLOW, 

SPEAKER  OF  THE   HOUSE   OF  COMMONS. 

Tired  Nature's  sweet  restorer,  balmy  Sleep  ! 
He,  like  the  world,  his  ready  visit  pays 
Where  Fortune  smiles ;  the  wretched  he  forsakes ; 
Swift  on  his  downy  pinion  flies  from  woe, 
And  lights  on  lids  unsullied  with  a  tear. 

From  short  (as  usual)  and  disturbed  repose 
I  wake :  how  happy  they  who  wake  no  more  !    " —^ 
Yet  that  were  vain,  if  dreams  infest  the  grave/\^ 
I  wake,  emerging  from  a  sea  of  dreams 
Tumultuous ;  where  my  wreck'd,  desponding  thought 
From  wave  to  wave  of  fancied  miserv 


THE     C  OMP  LAINT. 


At  random  drove,  her  helm  of  reason  lost : 

Though  now  restored,  'tis  only  change  of  pain, 

(A  bitter  change  !)  severer  for  severe. 

The  day  too  short  for  my  distress  ;  and  night. 

E'en  in  the  zenith  of  her  dark  domain. 

Is  sunshine  to  the  color  of  my  fate. 

Night,  sable  _godd^s !  from  her  ebon  throne. 
In  rayles3  majesty,  now  stretches  forth 
H'?;r'ieHdeh  Siieptre  o'er  a  slumb'ring  world. 
Silence  how  dead  !  and  darkness  how  profound ! 
Nor  eye  nor  hst'ning  ear  an  object  finds ; 
Creation  sleeps.     'Tis  as  the  general  pulse 
Of  hfe  stood  still,  and  Nature  made  a  pause ; 
An  awful  pause  !  prophetic  of  her  end. 
And  let  her  prophecy  be  soon  fulfill'd  : 
Fate  !  drop  the  curtain ;  I  can  lose  no  more. 

Silence  and  Darkness  !  solemn  sisters  !  twins 
From  ancient  Night,  who  nurse  the  tender  thought 
To  reason,  and  on  reason  build  resolve, 
(That  column  of  true  majesty  in  man,) 
Assist  me  ;  I  will  thank  you  in  the  ^rave ; 
The  grave  your  kingdom  :  there  this  frame  shall  fall 


NIGHT     I 


A  victim  sacred  to  your  dreary  shrine. 
But  what  are  ye  ? 

Thou,  who  didst  put  to  flight 
Primeval  Silence,  when  the  morning  stars. 
Exulting,  shouted  o'er  the  rising  ball ; 
0  Thou,  whose  word  from  solid  darkness  struck 
That  spark,  the  sun,  strike  wisdom  from  my  soul ; 
My  soul,  which  flies  to  thee,  her  trust,  her  treasure, 
As  misers  to  their  gold,  while  others  rest. 

Through  this  opaque  of  nature  and  of  soul. 
This  double  night,  transmit  one  pitying  ray. 
To  lighten  and  to  cheer.     0  lead  my  mind, 
(A  mind  that  fain  would  wander  from  its  woe,) 
Lead  it  through  various  scenes  of  life  and  death, 
And  from-  each  scene  the  noblest  truths  inspire. 
Nor  less  inspire  my  conduct  than  my  song ; 
Teach  my  best  reason,  reason;  my  best  will 
Teach  rectitude  ;  and  fix  my  firm  resolve 
Wisdom  to  wed,  and  pay  her  long  arrear ; 
Nor  let  the  phial  of  thy  vengeance,  pour'd 
On  this  devoted  head,  be  pour'd  in  vain. 

The  bell  strikes  one.     We  take  no  note  of  time 


10  THE     COMPLAINT. 

But  from  its  loss  :  to  give  it  then  a  tongue 

Is  wise  in  man.     As  if  an  angel  spoke, 

I  feel  the  solemn  sound.     If  heard  aright, 

It  is  the  knell  of  my  departed  hours. 

Where  are  they  ?     With  the  years  beyond  the  flood. 

It  is  the  signal  that  demands  despatch : 

How  much  is  to  be  done !     My  hopes  and  fears 

Start  up  alarm'd,  and  o'er  life's  narrow  verge 

Look  down — on  what  ?     A  fathomless  abyss  ; 

A  dread  eternity  !  how  surely  mine  ! 

And  can  eternity  belong  to  me. 

Poor  pensioner  on  the  bounties  of  an  hour  ? 

How  poor,  how  rich,  how  abject,  how  august, 
How  comphcate,  how  wonderful  is  man ! 
How  passing  wonder  He  who  made  him  such ! 
WTio  center'd  in  our  make  such  strange  extremes  ! 
From  difF'rent  natures,  marvellously  mix'd, 
Connection  exquisite  of  distant  worlds  ! 
Distinguish'd  link  in  being's  endless  chain ! 
Midway  from  nothing  to  the  Deity ! 
A  beam  ethereal,  sullied  and  absorb'd ! 
Though  sullied  and  dishonor'd,  still  divine ! 


NIGHT     I.  11 


Dim  miniature  of  greatness  absolute  !    ""^ 
An  heir  of  glory  !  a  frail  child  of  dust !    -^ 
Helpless  immortal !  insect  infinite !  — " 

A  worm  !  a  god  ! — I  tremble  at  myself, 
And  in  myself  am  lost.     At  home  a  stranger, 
Thought  wanders  up  and  down,  surprised,  aghast, 
And  wond'ring  at  her  own.     How  reason  reels ! 
0  what  a  miracle  to  man  is  man,    — 
Triumphantly  distress'd  !  what  joy !  what  dread ! 
Alternately  transported  and  alarm'd  !     ^~   - 
What  can  preserve  my  life  ?  or  what  destroy  ?     -'■*~" 
An  angel's  arm  can't  snatch  me  from  the  grave : 
Legions  of  angels  can't  confine  me  there. 
'^  'Tis  past  conjecture  ;  all  things  rise  in  proof : 
While  o'er  my  limbs  sleep's  soft  dominion  spreads. 
What  though  my  soul  fantastic  measures  trod 
O'er  fairy  fields,  or  mourn'd  along  the  gloom 
Of  pathless  woods,  or,  down  the  craggy  steep 
Hurl'd  headlong,  swam  with  pain  the  mantled  pool. 
Or  scaled  the  cliff,  or  danced  on  hollow  winds 
With  antic  shapes,  wild  natives  of  the  brain  ? 
Her  ceaseless  flight,  tho'  devious,  speaks  her  nature 


12  THE     C  OMPLAINT. 

Of  subtler  essence  than  the  trodden  clod, 

Active,  aerial,  towering,  unconfined, 

Unfetter'd  with  her  gross  companion's  fall. 

E'en  silent  night  proclaims  my  soul  immortal : 

E'en  silent  night  proclaims  eternal  day. 

For  human  weal  Heav'n  husbands  all  ev.ents  : 

Dull  sleep  instructs,  nor  sport  vain  dreams  in  vain. 

Why  then  their  loss  deplore  that  are  not  lost  ? 
Why  wanders  wretched  thought  their  tombs  around 
In  infidel  distress  ?     Are  angels  there  ? 
Slumbers,  raked  up  in  dust,  ethereal  fire  ? 

They  live !  they  greatly  live  a  life  on  earth 
Unkindled,  unconceived  ;  and  from  an  eye 
Of  tenderness  let  heav'nly  pity  fall 
On  me,  more  justly  number'd  with  the  dead. 
This  is  the  desert,  this  the  solitude : 
How  populous,  how  vital  is  the  grave  ! 
This  is  creation's  melancholy  vault, 
The  vale  funereal,  the  sad  cypress  gloom, 
The  land  of  apparitions,  empty  shades ! 
All,  all  on  earth  is  shadow,  all  beyond 


NIG  HT     I.  13 


Is  substance ;  the  reverse  is  folly's  creed : 
How  solid  all,  where  change  shall  be  no  more ! 

This  is  the  bud  of  being,  the  dim  dawn, 
The  twilight  of  our  day,  the  vestibule,         / 
Life's  theatre  as  yet  is  shut,  and  Death, 
Strong  Death,  alone  can  heave  the  massy  bar, 
This  gross  impediment  of  clay  remove, 
And  make  us  embryos  of  existence  free. 
From  real  life,  but  little  more  remote 
Is  he,  not  yet  a  candidate  for  light. 
The  future  embryo,  slumb'ring  in  his  sire. 
Embryos^we  mu^t^be  till  we  burst  the  shell,   l-— 
Yon  ambient  azure  shell,  and  spring  to  life,    '^-- — 
The  life  of  gods  (0  transport !)  and  of  man. 

Yet  man,  fool  man,  here  buries  all  his  thoughts ; 
Inters  celestial  hopes  without  one  sigh : 
Pris'ner  of  earth,  and  pent  beneath  the  moon. 
Here  pinions  all  his  wishes  ;  wing'd  by  Heav'n 
To  fly  at  infinite,  and  reach  it  there. 
Where  seraphs  gather  immortality, 
On  life's  fair  tree,  fast  by  the  throne  of  God. 
What  golden  joys  ambrosial  clust'ring  glow 


14  THE      COMPLAINT. 

In  his  full  beam,  and  ripen  for  the  just, 

Where  momentaiy  ages  are  no  more ! 

Wliere  Time,  and  Pain,  and  Chance,  and  Death  expire ! 

And  is  it  in  the  flight  of  threescore  years 

To  push  eternity  from  human  thought. 

And  smother  souls  immortal  in  the  dust  ? 

A  soul  immortal,  spending  all  her  fires. 

Wasting  her  strength  in  strenuous  idleness. 

Thrown  into  tumult,  raptur'd  or  alarm'd 

At  aught  this  scene  can  threaten  or  indulge, 

Resembles  ocean  into  tempest  wrought,  J"' 

To  waft  a  feather  or  to  drown  a  fly. 

Where  falls  this  censure  ?     It  o'erwhelms  myse.f. 
How  was  my  heart  incrusted  by  the  world  ! 
0  how  self-fetter'd  was  my  grov'ling  soul ! 
How  like  a  worm  was  I  wrapt  round  and  round 
In  silken  thought,  which  reptile  Fancy  spun, 
Till  darken'd  Reason  lay  quite  clouded  o'er 
With  soft  conceit  of  endless  comfort  here, 
Nor  yet  put  forth  her  wings  to  reach  the  skies  ! 

Night  visions  may  befriend  (as  sung  above)  : 
Our  waking  dreams  are  fatal.     How  I  dreamt 


NIGHT     I.  15 


Of  things  impossible  !  (could  sleep  do  more  ?) 
Of  joys  perpetual  in  perpetual  change ! 
Of  stable  pleasures  on  the  tossing  wave  ! 
Eternal  sunshine  in  the  storms  of  life ! 
How  richly  were  my  noontide  trances  hung 
With  gorgeous  tapestries  of  pictured  joys  ! 
Joy  behind  joy,  in  endless  perspective ! 
Till  at  Death's  toll,  whose  restless  iron  tongue 
Calls  daily  for  his  millions  at  a  meal. 
Starting  I  woke,  and  found  myself  undone. 
Where  now  my  frenzy's  pompous  furniture  ? 
The  cobwebb'd  cottage,  with  its  ragged  wall 


"/¥^.- 


Of  mould'ring  mud,  is  royalty  to  me ! 
The  spider's  most  attenuated  thread 
Is  cord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender  tie 
On  earthly  bliss  ;  it  breaks  at  every  breeze. 
0  ye  blest  scenes  of  permanent  delight ! 
Full  above  measure !  lasting  beyond  bound  ! 
A  perpetuity  of  bliss  is  bliss. 
Could  you,  so  rich  in  rapture,  fear  an  end, 
That  ghastly  thought  would  drink  up  all  your  joy. 
And  quite  unparadise  the  realms  of  light. 


16  THECOMPLAINT. 

Safe  are  you  lodged  above  these  rolling  spheres ; 

The  baleful  influence  of  whose  giddy  dance 

Sheds  sad  vicissitude  on  all  beneath. 

Here  teem  the  revolutions  every  hour, 

And  rarely  for  the  better ;   or  the  best, 

More  mortal  than  the  common  births  of  Fate. 

Each  Moment  has  its  sickle,  emulous 

Of  Time's  enormous  scythe,  whose  arnple  sweep 

Strikes  empires  from  the  root  j^  each  Moment  plays 

His  little  weapon  in  the  narrower  sphere 

Of  sweet  domestic  comfort,  and  cuts  down 

The  fairest  bloom  of  sublunary  bliss. '"'" 

Bliss  !  sublunary  bliss  ! — proud  words  and  vain  ! 
Implicit  treason  to  divine  decree  ! 
A  bold  invasion  of  the  rights  of  Heav'n ! 
I  clasp'd  the  phantoms,  and  I  found  them  air. 
0  had  I  weigh'd  it  ere  my  fond  embrace ! 
What  darts  of  agony  had  miss'd  my  heart ! 
Death  !  great  proprietor  of  all !  'tis  thine 
To  tread  out  empire,  and  to  quench  the  stars. 
The  sun  himself  by  thy  permission  shines, 
And,  one  day,  thou  shalt  pluck  him  from  his  sphere. 


1 

NIGHT     I.  17 


Amidst  such  mighty  plunder,  why  exhaust 

Thy  partial  quiver  on  a  mark  so  mean  ? 

Why  thy  pecuhar  rancor  wreak'd  on  me  ? 

Insatiate  archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain ; 

And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn. 

0  Cynthia  !  why  so  pale  ?  dost  thou  lament 

Thy  wretched  neighbor  ?  grieve  to  see  thy  wheel 

Of  ceaseless  change  outwhirl'd  in  human  life .? 

How  wanes  my  borrow'd  bliss !  from  Fortune's  smile, 

Precarious  courtesy  !  not  Virtue's  sure, 

Self-given,  solar  ray  of  sound  deUght. 

In  ev'ry  varied  posture,  place,  and  hour. 
How  widow'd  ev'ry  thought  of  ev'ry  joy  ! 
Thought,  busy  thought !  too  busy  for  my  peace  ! 
Through  the  dark  postern  of  time  long  elapsed, 
Led  softly,  by  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
Led,  like  a  murderer  (and  such  it  proves  !) 
Strays  (wretched  rover !)  o'er  the  pleasing  past ; 
In  quest  of  wretchedness  perversely  strays ; 
And  finds  all  desert  now ;  and  meets  the  ghosts 
Of  my  departed  joys,  a  num'rous  train ! 


18  THE     COMPLAINT. 


I  rue  the  riches  of  my  former  fate  ; 
Sweet  Comfort's  blasted  clusters  I  lament ; 
I  tremble  at  the  blessings  once  so  dear. 
And  ev'ry  pleasure  pains  me  to  the  heart. 

Yet  why  complain  ?  or  why  complain  for  one  ? 
Hangs  out  the  sun  his  lustre  but  for  me, 
The  single  man  ?  are  angels  all  beside  ? 
I  mourn  for  millions  :  'tis  the  common  lot ;  \ 
In  this  shape,  or  in  that,  has  Fate  entail'd 
The  mother's  throes  on  all  of  woman  born, 
Not  more  the  children  than  sure  heirs  of  pain. 

War,  famine,  pest,  volcano,  storm,  and  fire. 
Intestine  broils,  Oppression,  with  her  heart 
Wrapt  up  in  triple  brass,  besiege  mankind. 
God's  image,  disinherited  of  day. 
Here,  plunged  in  mines,  forgets  a  sun  was  made ; 
There,  beings,  deathless  as  their  haughty  lord, 
Are  hammer'd  to  the  galling  oar  for  life ; 
And  plough  the  winter's  wave,  and  reap  despair. 
Some  for  hard  masters,  broken  under  arms, 
In  battle  lopp'd  away,  with  half  their  limbs. 
Beg  bitter  bread  through  realms  their  valor  saved. 


NIGHT     I.  19 


If  SO  the  tyrant  or  his  minion  doom. 

Want,  and  incurable  disease,  (fell  pair  !) 

On  hopeless  multitudes  remorseless  seize 

At  once,  and  make  a  refuge  of  the  grave. 

How  groaning  hospitals  eject  their  dead  ! 

What  numbers  groan  for  sad  admission  there ! 

What  numbers,  once  in  Fortune's  lap  high  fed, 

Solicit  the  cold  hand  of  charity ! 

To  shock  us  more,  solicit  it  in  vain ! 

Ye  silken  sons  of  Pleasure  !  since  in  pains 

You  rue  more  modish  -vdsits,  visit  here. 

And  breathe  from  your  debauch ;  give,  and  reduce 

Surfeit's  dominion  o'er  you  :  but  so  great 

Your  impudence,  you  blush  at  what  is  right. 

Happy !  did  sorrow  seize  on  such  alone  : 
Not  prudence  can  defend,  or  virtue  save ; 
Disease  invades  the  chastest  temperance. 
And  punishment  the  guiltless ;  and  alarm. 
Through  thickest  shades,  pursues  the  fond  of  peace. 
Man's  caution  often  into  danger  turns, 
And,  his  guard  falling,  crushes  him  to  death. 
Not  Happiness  herself  makes  good  her  name : 


20  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Our  very  wishes  give  us  not  our  wish. 
How  distant  oft  the  thing  we  dote  on  most 
From  that  for  which  we  dote,  fehcity ! 
The  smoothest  course  of  Nature  has  its  pains  ; 
And  truest  friends,  through  error,  wound  our  rest. 
Without  misfortune,  what  calamities  ! 
And  what  hostihties,  without  a  foe ! 
Nor  are  foes  wanting  to  the  best  on  earth. 
But  endless  is  the  list  of  human  ills, 
And  sighs  might  sooner  fail  than  cause  to  sigh. 
I    A  part  how  small  of  the  terraqueous  globe 
Is  tenanted  by  man !  the  rest  a  waste. 
Rocks,  deserts,  frozen  seas,  and  burning  sands : 
Wild  haunts  of  monsters,  poisons,  stings,  and  death. 
Such  is  earth's  melancholy  map  !  but,  far 
More  sad  !  this  earth  is  a  true  map  of  man : 
So  bounded  are  its  haughty  lord's  delights 
To  woe's  wide  empire,  where  deep  troubles  toss. 
Loud  sorrows  howl,  envenom'd  passions  bite, 
Rav'nous  calamities  our  vitals  seize. 
And  threat'ning  Fate  wide  opens  to  devour.    \ 
What  then  am  I,  who  sorrow  for  myself  ? 


NI  GHT     I.  21 


In  age,  in  infancy,  from  others'  aid 

Is  all  our  hope ;  to  teach  us  to  be  kind. 

That,  Nature's  first,  last  lesson  to  mankind ; 

The  selfish  heart  deserves  the  pain  it  feels. 

More  gen'rous  sorrow,  while  it  sinks,  exalts  ; 

And  conscious  virtue  mitigates  the  pang. 

Nor  virtue  more  than  prudence  bids  me  give 

Swoll'n  thought  a  second  channel ;  who  divide. 

They  weaken,  too,  the  torrent  of  their  grief. 

Take,  then,  0  world  !  thy  much-indebted  tear ; 

How  sad  a  sight  is  human  happiness 

To  those  whose  thought  can  pierce  beyond  an  hour ! 

0  thou  !  whate'er  thou  art,  whose  heart  exults  ! 
Wouldst  thou  I  should  congratulate  thy  fate  ? 

1  know  thou  wouldst  ;  thy  pride  demands  it  from  me. 
Let  thy  pride  pardon,  what  thy  natui'e  needs. 

The  salutary  censure  of  a  friend. 
Thou  happy  wretch  !  by  blindness  art  thou  blest ; 
By  dotage  dandled  to  perpetual  smiles ! 
Know,  smiler !  at  thy  peril  art  thou  pleased ; 
Thy  pleasure  is  the  promise  of  thy  pain. 
Misfortune,  like  a  creditor  severe. 


22  THE     COMPLAINT. 

But  rises  in  demand  for  her  delay  ; 
She  makes  a  scourge  of  past  prosperity, 
To  sting  thee  more,  and  double  thy  distress. 
Lorenzo,  Fortune  makes  her  court  to  thee : 
Thy  fond  heart  dances  while  the  siren  sings. 
Dear  is  thy  welfare  ;  think  me  not  unkind  ; 
I  would  not  damp,  but  to  secure,  thy  joys. 
Think  not  that  fear  is  sacred  to  the  storm  ; 
Stand  on  thy  guard  against  the  smiles  of  Fate. 
Is  heav'n  tremendous  in  its  frowns  ?  most  sure ! 
And  in  its  favors  formidable  too  : 
Its  favors  here  are  trials,  not  rewards  ; 
A  call  to  duty,  not  discharge  from  care  ; 
And  should  alarm  us  full  as  much  as  woes ; 
Awake  us  to  their  cause  and  consequence, 
And  make  us  tremble,  weigh'd  with  our  desert 
Awe  nature's  tumult,  and  chastise  her  joys, 
Lest  while  we  clasp,  we  kill  them  ;  nay,  invert 
To  worse  than  simple  misery  their  charms. 
Revolted  joys,  like  foes  in  civil  war, 
Like  bosom  friendships  to  resentment  sour'd, 
With  rage  envenom 'd  rise  against  our  peace. 


NIGHT     I.  23 


Beware  what  eartli  calls  happiness ;  beware 
All  joys  but  joys  that  never  can  expire. 
Who  builds  on  less  than  an  immortal  base, 
Fond  as  he  seems,  condemns  his  joys  to  death. 

Mine  died  with  thee,  Philander!  thy  last  sigh 
Dissolved  the  charm  :  the  disenchanted  earth 
Lost  all  her  lustre.     Where  her  glitt'ring  towers  ? 
Her  golden  mountains  where  ?  all  darkened  down 
To  naked  waste ;  a  dreary  vale  of  tears : 
The  great  magician 's  dead  !     Thou  poor,  pale  piece 
Of  outcast  earth,  in  darkness !  whatji_^change 
From  yesterday  !     Thy  darling  hope  so  near,  '        "" 

(Long  labor'd  prize  !)  0  how  ambition  flushed 
Thy  glowing  cheek !  ambition,  truly  great, 
Of  virtuous  praise.     Death's  subtle  seed  within, 
(Sly,  treach'rous  miner  !)  working  in  the  dark. 
Smiled  at  thy  well-concerted  scheme,  and  beckon'd 
The  worm  to„  riot,  on  that  rose  so  red,  jV^  cuy^-^M j^K.f--^ 

Unfaded  ere  it  fell ;  one  moment's  prey ! 

Man's  foresight  is  conditionally  wise ; 
Lorenzo  !  wisdom  into  folly  turns 
Oft  the  first  instant  :  its  idea  fair 


24  THE    COMPLAINT. 

To  laboring  thought  is  born.     How  dim  our  eye ! 

The  present  moment  terminates  our  sight ; 

Clouds,  thick  as  those  on  doomsday,  drown  the  next ; 

We  penetrate,  we  prophesy  in  vain. 

Time  is  dealt  out  by  particles,  and  each, 

Ere  mingled  with  the  streaming  sands  of  life, 

By  Fate's  inviolable  oath  is  sworn 

Deep  silence,  "  Where  eternity  begins." 

By  Nature's  law,  what  may  be,  may  be  now  ; 
There's  no  prerogative  in  human  hours. 
In  human  hearts  what  bolder  thought  can  rise 
Than  man's  presumption  on  to-morrow's  dawn  ? 
Where  is  to-morrow  ?     In  another  world, 
For  numbers  this  is  certain :  the  reverse 
Is  sure  to  none  ;  and  yet  on  this  Perhaps, 
This  Peradventure,  infamous  for  lies, 
As  on  a  rock  of  adamant,  we  build 
Our  mountain  hopes,  spin  our  eternal  schemes. 
As  we  the  Fatal  Sisters  could  outspin. 
And,  big  with  hfe's  futurities,  expire. 
Not  e'en  Philander  had  bespoke  his  shroud, 
Nor  had  he  cause,  a  warning  was  denied  : 


N  IGHT     I.  25 


How  many  fall  as  sudden,  not  as  safe  ; 

As  sudden,  though  for  years  admonish'd  home ! 

Of  human  ills  the  last  extreme  beware  ; 

Beware,  Lorenzo  !  a  slow-sudden  death. 

How  dreadful  that  deliberate  surprise  ! 

Be  wise  to-day  ;  'tis  madness  to  defer  : 

Next  day  the  fatal  precedent  will  plead  ; 

Thus  on,  till  wisdom  is  push'd  out  of  life. 

Procrastination  is  the  thief  of  time ; 

Year  after  year  it  steals,  till  all  are  fled. 

And  to  the  mercies  of  a  moment  leaves 

The  vast  concerns  of  an  eternal  scene. 

If  not  so  frequent,  would  not  this  be  strange  ? 

That  'tis  so  frequent,  this  is  stranger  still. 

Of  man's  miraculous  mistakes,  this  bears 
The  palm,  "  That  all  men  are  about  to  live," 
Forever  on  the  brink  of  being  born. 
All  pay  themselves  the  compliment  to  think 
They,  one  day,  shall  not  diivel ;  and  their  pride 
On  this  reversion  takes  up  ready  praise ; 
At  least  their  own  ;  their  future  selves  applauds : 
How  excellent  that  life  they  ne'er  will  lead ! 


26  THE     C  OMPLAINT 

Time  lodged  in  their  own  hands  is  Folly's  vails ; 

That  lodged  in  Fate's,  to  wisdom  they  consign  ; 

The  thing  they  can't  but  purpose  they  postpone : 

'Tis  not  in  folly  not  to  scorn  a  fool ; 

And  scarce  in  human  wisdom  to  do  more. 

All  promise  is  poor  dilatory  man, 

And  that  through  ev'ry  stage :  when  young,  indeed, 

In  full  content  we  sometimes  nobly  re§t, 

Unanxieus  for  ourselves,  and  only  wish, 

As  duteous  sons,  our  fathers  were  more  wise. 

At  thirty,  man  suspects  himself  a  fool ; 

Knows  it  at  forty,  and  reforms  his  plan ; 

At  fifty,  chides  his  infamous  delay. 

Pushes  his  prudent  purpose  to  resolve ; 

In  all  the  magnanimity  of  thought 

Resolves,  and  re-resolves ;  then  dies  the  same. 

And  why  ?  because  he  thinks  himself  immortal. 
All  men  think  all  men  mortal  but  themselves ; 
Themselves,  when  some  alarming  shock  of  fate 
Strikes  thro'  their  wounded  hearts  the  sudden  dread ; 
But  their  hearts  wounded,  like  the  wounded  air. 
Soon  close  ;  where  pass'd  the  shaft  no  trace  is  found. 


NIGHT     I  .  27 


As  from  the  wing  no  scar  the  sky  retains, 
The  parted  wave  no  furrow  from  the  keel, 
So  dies  in  human  hearts  the  thought  of  death. 
E'en  with  the  tender  tear  which  nature  sheds 
O'er  those  we  love,  we  drop  it  in  their  grave. 
Can  I  forget  Philander  ?  that  were  strange ! 

0  my  full  heart ! — But  should  I  give  it  vent. 
The  longest  night,  though  longer  far,  would  fail. 
And  the  lark  listen  to  my  midnight  song. 

The  sprightly  lark's  shrill  matin  wakes  the  morn ; 
Grief's  sharpest  thorn  hard  pressing  on  my  breast, 

1  strive,  with  wakeful  melody,  to  cheer 

The  sullen  gloom,  sweet  Philomel !  like  thee. 

And  call  the  stars  to  listen  :  ev'ry  star 

Is  deaf  to  mine,  enamor'd  of  thy  lay. 

Yet  be  not  vain  ;  there  are  who  thine  excel, 

And  charm  through  distant  ages.     Wrapt  in  shade, 

Pris'ner  of  darkness  !  to  the  silent  hours 

How  often  I  repeat  their  rage  divine. 

To  lull  my  griefs,  and  steal  my  heart  from  woe ! 

I  roll  their  raptures,  but  not  catch  their  flames. 

Dark,  though  not  blind,  like  thee,  Maeonides ! 


28  THE     C  0  MPL  AINT. 


Or,  Milton,  thee !  ah,  could  I  reach  your  strain ! 

Or  his  who  made  Mseonides  our  own. 

Man,  too,  he  sung ;  immortal  man  I  sing. 

Oft  bursts  my  song  beyond  the  bounds  of  life ; 

What  now  but  immortality  can  please  ? 

0  had  he  pressed  his  theme,  pursued  the  track 

Which  opens  out  of  darkness  into  day ! 

0  had  he,  mounted  on  his  wing  of  fire, 

Soar'd  where  I  sink,  and  sung  immortal  man. 

How  had  it  blest  mankind,  and  rescued  me  ! 


NIGHT  II. 

ON  TIME,  DEATH,   AND   FRIENDSHIP. 

TO    THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE    THE    EARL    OF  WILMINGTON. 


When  the  cock  crew,  he  wept, — smote  by  that  Eye 
Which  looks  on  me,  on  all ;  that  Pow'r  who  bids 
This  midnight  sentinel,  with  clarion  shrill 
(Emblem  of  that  which  shall  awake  the  dead), 
Rouse  souls  from  slumber  into  thoughts  of  heav'n. 
Shall  I  too  weep  ?  where  then  is  fortitude  ? 
And,  fortitude  abandon'd,  where  is  man  ? 
I  know  the  terms  on  which  he  sees  the  light ; 
He  that  is  bom  is  listed :  life  is  war ; 
Eternal  war  with  woe :  who  bears  it  best 

Deserves  it  least. On  other  themes  I'll  dwell. 

Lorenzo  !  let  me  turn  my  thoughts  on  thee  : 
And  thine  on  themes  may  profit ;  profit  there 


J/, 


'^< 


30  THECOMPLAINT. 


Where  most  thy  need :  themes,  too,  the  genuine  growtli 
Of  dear  Philander's  dust.     He  thus,  though  dead, 
May  still  befriend. — What  themes  ?     Time's  wondrous 

price, 
Death,  friendship,  and  Philander's  final  scene ! 

So  could  I  touch  these  themes  as  might  obtain 
Thine  ear,  nor  leave  thy  heart  quite  disengaged. 
The  good  deed  would  delight  me  ;  half  impress 
On  my  dark  cloud  an  Iris,  and  from  grief 
Call  glory. — Dost  thou  mourn  Philander's  fate  ? 
I  know  thou  say'st  it ;  says  thy  life  the  same  ? 
He  mourns  the  dead,  who  lives  as  they  desire. 
Where  is  that  thrift,  that  avarice  of  time, 
(O  glorious  avarice  !)  thought  of  death  inspires. 
As  rumor'd  robberies  endear  our  gold  ?  * 

0  Time  !  than  gold  more  sacred  ;  more  a  load 
Than  lead  to  fools,  and  fools  reputed  wise. 
What  moment  granted  man  without  account  ? 
What  years  are  squander'd,  wisdom's  debt  unpaid  ! 
Our  wealth  in  days  all  due  to  that  discharge. 
Haste,  haste,  he  lies  in  wait,  he's  at  the  door. 
Insidious  death  !  should  his  strong  hand  arrest. 


i 


NIGHT     II.  31 


No  composition  sets  the  pris'ner  free. 
Eternity's  inexorable  chain 

Fast  binds,  and  vengeance  claims  the  full  arrear. 
How  late  I  shudder'd  on  the  brink !  how  late 
Life  call'd  for  her  last  refuge  in  despair ! 
That  time  is  mine,  0  Mead  !  to  thee  I  owe  ; 
Fain  would  I  pay  thee  with  eternity ; 
But  ill  my  genius  answers  my  desire : 
My  sickly  song  is  mortal,  past  thy  cure : 
Accept  the  will ; — it  dies  not  with  my  strain. 
For  what  calls  thy  disease,  Lorenzo  ?     Not 
For  Esculapian,  but  for  moral  aid.  • 

Thou  think'st  it  folly  to  be  wise  too  soon. 
(  Youth  is  not  rich  in  time ;  it  may  be  poor ; 
Part  with  it  as  wltli  money,  sparing  :  pay 
No  moment,  but  in  purchase  of  its  worth  ; 
And  what  its  worth,  ask  death-beds  ;  they  can  tell. 
Part  with  it  as  with  life,  reluctant ;  big 
With  holy  l^op'e  of  nobler  time  to  come  : 
Time  higher  aim'd,  still  nearer  the  great  mark 
Of  men  and  angels  ;  virtue  more  divine. 
Is  this  our  duty,  wisdom,  glory,  gain  ? 


32  THE     COMPLAINT. 

(These  Heav'n  benign  in  vital  union  binds) 
And  sport  we  like  the  natives  of  the  bough, 
When  vernal  suns  inspire  ?     Amusement  reigns 
Man's  great  demand :  to  trifle  is  to  live  : 
And  is  it  then  a  trifle,  too,  to  die  ? 

Thou  say'st  I  preach,  Lorenzo  !     'Tis  confest : 
What  if,  for  once,  I  preach  thee  quite  awake  ? 
Who  wants  amusement  in  the  flame  of  battle  ? 
Is  it  not  treason  to  the  soul  immortal, 
Her  foes  in  arms,  eternity  the  prize  ? 
Will  toys  amuse  when  med'cines  cannot  cure  ? 
When  spirits  ebb,  when  life's  enchanting  scenes 
Their  lustre  lose,  and  lessen  in  our  sight, 
(As  lands,  and  cities  with  their  glitt'ring  spires. 
To  the  poor  shatter'd  bark,  by  sudden  storm 
Thrown  off"  to  sea,  and  soon  to  perish  there,) 
Will  toys  amuse  ?     No ;  thrones  will  then  be  toys, 
And  earth  and  skies  seem  dust  upon  the  scale. 

Redeem  we  time  ? — Its  loss  we  dearly  buy. 
What  pleads  Lorenzo  for  his  high-prized  sports  ? 
He  pleads  time's  num'rous  blanks ;  he  loudly  pleads 
The  straw-like  trifles  on  life's  common  stream. 


NIQHT     II.  33 


From  whom  these  blanks  and  trifles,  but  from  thee  ? 
No  blank,  no  trifle,  Nature  made,  or  meant. 
Virtue,  or  purposed  virtue,  still  be  thine ; 
This  cancels  thy  complaint  at  once ;  this  leaves 
In  act  no  trifle,  and  no  blank  in  time. 
This  greatens,  fills,  immortalizes  all ; 
This  the  blest  art  of  turning  all  to  gold : 
This  the  good  heart's  prerogative  to  raise 
A  royal  tribute  from  the  poorest  hours ; 
Immense  revenue  !  ev'ry  moment  pays. 
If  nothing  more  than  purpose  in  thy  pow'r, 
Thy  purpose  firm  is  equal  to  the  deed^ 
Who  does  the  best  his  circumstance  allows. 
Does  well,  acts  nobly  ;  angels  could  no  more. 
Our  outward  act,  indeed,  admits  restraint : 
'Tis  not  in  things  o'er  thought  to  domineer ; 
Guard  well  thy  thought :  our  thoughts  are  heard  in 
Heav'n. 
On  all-important  time,  through  every  age, 
Tho'  much,  and  warm,  the  wise  have  urg'd,  the  man 
Is  yet  unborn  who  duly  weighs  an  hour. 
"  I've  lost  a  day" — the  prince  who  nobly  cried, 


2* 


34  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Had  been  an  emperor  without  his  cro\m ; 
Of  Rome  ?  say  rather  lord  of  human  race  ! 
He  spoke  as  if  deputed  by  mankind. 
So  should  all  speak ;  so  reason  speaks  in  all : 
From  the  soft  whispers  of  that  God  in  man, 
Why  fly  to  folly,  why  to  frenzy  fly 
For  rescue  from  the  blessings  we  possess  ? 
Time,  the  supreme ! — Time  is  eternity  : 
Pregnant  with  all  eternity  can  give  : 
Pregnant  with  all  that  makes  archangels  smile. 
Who  murders  Time,  he  crushes  in  the  birth 
A  pow'r  etherea>,  only  not  adored. 

Ah  !  how  unjust  to  Nature  and  himself 
Is  thoughtless,  thankless,  inconsistent  man ! 
Like  children  babbling  nonsense  in  their  sports, 
We  censure  Nature  for  a  span  too  short ; 
That  span  too  short  we  tax  as  tedious  too ; 
Torture  invention,  all  expedients  tire. 
To  lash  the  lingering  moments  into  speed. 
And  whirl  us  (happy  riddance !)  from  ourselves. 
Art,  brainless  Art !  our  furious  charioteer 
(For  Nature's  voice  unstifled  would  recall,) 


N  I  G  H  T     1 1 .  35 


Drives  headlong  towards  the  precipice  of  death, 
Death  most  our   dread;    death  thus  more   dreadful 

made  ; 
0  what  a  riddle  of  absurdity ! 
Leisure  is  pain ;  takes  off  our  chariot -wheels. 
How  heavily  we  drag  the  load  of  life ! 
Blest  leisure  is  our  curee ;  like  that  of  Cain, 
It  makes  us  wander,  wander  earth  around, 
To  fly  that  tyrant  Thought.     As  Atlas  groan'd 
The  world  beneath,  we  groan  beneath  an  hour. 
We  cry  for  mercy  to  the  next  amusement ; 
The  next  amusement  mortages  our  fields  ; 
Slight  inconvenience  !  prisons  hardly  frown, 
From  hateful  time  if  prisons  set  us  free. 
Yet  when  Death  kindly  tenders  us  relief, 
We  call  him  cruel ;  years  to  moments  shrink, 
Ages  to  years.     The  telescope  is  tuin'd. 
To  man's  false  optics  (from  his  folly  false) 
Time,  in  advance,  behind  him  hides  his  wings, 
And  seems  to  creep,  decrepit  with  his  age : 
Behold  him  when  past  by  ;  what  then  is  seen 
But  his  broad  pinions  swifter  than  the  winds  ? 


36  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  all  mankind,  in  contradiction  strong. 
Rueful,  aghast !  cry  out  on  his  career. 

Leave  to  thy  foes  these  errors,  and  these  ills  ; 
To  !N'ature  just,  their  cause  and  cure  explore. 
Not  short  Heav'n's  bounty ;  boundless  our  expense  ; 
No  niggard,  Nature  ;  meii  are  prodigals. 
We  waste,  not  use,  our  time  :  we  breathe,  not  live. 
Time  wasted  is  existence,  used  is  life. 
And  bare  existence,  man,  to  live  ordain'd. 
Wrings,  and  oppresses  with  enormous  weight. 
And  why  ?  since  time  was  given  for  use,  not  waste^ 
Enjoin'd  to  fly  ;  with  tempest,  tide,  and  stars. 
To  keep  his  speed,  nor  ever  wait  for  man ; 
Time's  use  was  doom'd  a  pleasure,  waste  a  pain ; 
That  man  might  feel  his  error,  if  unseen, 
And,  feehng,  fly  to  labor  for  his  cure ; 
Not,  blund'ring,  spht  on  idleness  for  ease. 
Life's  cares  are  comforts ;  such  by  Heav'n  design'd  ; 
He  that  has  none  must  make  them,  or  be  wretched. 
Cares  are  employments  ;  and  without  employ 
The  soul  is  on  a  rack ;  the  rack  of  rest. 
To  souls  most  adverse  ;  action  all  their  joy. 


IGHT     II.  37 


Here  then  the  riddle  mark'd  above  unfolds ; 
Then  time  turns  torment,  when  man  turns  a  fool. 
We  rave,  we  wrestle  with  great  Nature's  plan ; 
We  thwart  the  Deity,  and  'tis  decreed 
Who  thwart  his  will  shall  contradict  their  own. 
Hence  our  unnatural  quarrel  with  ourselves ; 
Our  thoughts  at  enmity ;  our  bosom-broil ; 
We  push  Time  from  us,  and  we  wish  him  back  , 
Lavish  of  lustrums,  and  yet  fond  of  life  ; 
Life  we  think  long  and  short ;  death  seek  and  shun  ; 
Body  and- soul,  like  peevish  man  and  wife. 
United  jar,  and  yet  are  loth  to  part. 

0  the  dark  days  of  vanity  !  while  here 
How  tasteless,  and  how  terrible  when  gone ! 
Gone  !  they  ne'er  go ;  when  past,  they  haunt  us  still ; 
The  spirit  walks  of  ev'ry  day  deceas'd. 
And  smiles  an  angel,  or  a  fury  frowns. 
Nor  death  nor  life  delight  us.     If  time  past 
And  time  possest  doth  pain  us,  what  can  please  ? 
That  which  the  Deity  to  please  ordain'd. 
Time  used.     The  man  who  consecrates  his  hours 
By  vig'rous  effort  and  an  honest  aim. 


38  THECOMl'LAINT. 

At  once  he  draws  the  sting  of  life  and  death  ; 
He  walks  with  Nature,  and  her  paths  are  peace. 
Our  error's  cause  and  cure  are  seen :  see  next 
Time's  nature,  origin,  importance,  speed ; 
And  thy  great  gain  from  urging  his  career. — 
All-sensual  man,  because  untouch'd,  unseen, 
He  looks  on  Time  as  nothing.     Nothing  else 
Is  truly  man's :  'tis  Fortune's. — Time  's  a  god. 
Thou  hast  ne'er  heard  of  Time's  omnipotence? 
For,  or  against,  what  wonders  can  he  do  ! 
And  will :  to  stand  blank  neuter  he  disdains. 
Not  on  those  terms  was  Time  (Heav'n's  stranger !)  sent 
On  his  important  embassy  to  man. 
Lorenzo !  no  :  on  the  long-destined  hour, 
From  everlasting  ages  growing  ripe. 
That  memorable  hour  of  wondrous  birth, 
When  the  dread  Sire,  on  emanation  bent. 
And  big  with  Nature,  rising  in  his  might, 
Call'd  forth  Creation  (for  then  Time  was  born) 
By  Godhead  streaming  through  a  thousand  worlds ; 
Not  on  those  terms,  from  the  great  days  of  heav'n. 
From  old  Eternity's  mysterious  orb, 


N  I  G  H  T     I  1 .  39 


Was  Time  cut  oflf,  and  cast  beneath  the  skies ; 

The  skies,  which  watch  him  in  his  new  abode, 

Measuring  his  motions  by  revolving  spheres ; 

That  horologe  machinery  divine: 

Hours,  days,  and  months,  and  years,  his  children,  play, 

Like  num'rous  wings,  around  him,  as  he  flies : 

Or  rather,  as  imequal  plimaes,  they  shape 

His  ample  pinions,  swift  as  darted  flame. 

To  gain  his  goal,  to  reach  his  ancient  rest, 

And  join  anew  Eternity  his  sire ; 

In  his  immutability  to  nest. 

When  worlds,  that  count  his  circles  now,  unhinged, 

(Fate  the  loud  signal  souriding,)  headlong  rush 

To  timeless  night,  and  chaos,  whence  they  rose. 

Why  spur  the  speedy  ?  why  with  levities 
New- wing  thy  short,  short  day's  too  rapid  flight  ? 
Know'st  thou,  or  what  thou  dost,  or  what  is  done  ? 
Man  flies  from  time,  and  time  from  man ;  too  soon 
In  sad  divorce  this  double  flight  must  end ; 
And  then  where  are  we  ?  where,  Lorenzo,  then 
Thy  sports,  thy  pomps  ?     I  grant  thee,  in  a  state 
Not  unambitious ;  in  the  ruffled  shroud. 


! 

40  THE     CO  xM  PLAINT. 


Thy  Parian  tomb's  triumphant  arch  beneath. 
Has  Death  his  fopperies  ?     Then  well  may  Life 
Put  on  her  plume,  and  iti  her  rainbow  shine. 

Ye  well  array'd !  ye  lilies  of  our  land  ! 
Ye  lilies  male  !  who  neither  toil  nor  spin 
(As  sister  lilies  might),  if  not  so  wise 
As  Solomon,  more  sumptuous  to  the  sight ! 
Ye  delicate  !  who  nothing  can  support, 
Yourselves  most  insupportable  !  for  whom 
The  winter  rose  must  blow,  the  sun  put  on 
A  brighter  beam  in  Leo  ;  silky-soft 
Favonius  breathe  still  softer,  or  be  chid  ; 
And  other  worlds  send  odors,  sauce,  and  song, 
And  robes,  and  notions,  framed  in  foreign  looms 
0  ye  Lorenzos  of  our  age  !  who  deem 
One  moment  unamused  a  misery 
Not  made  for  feeble  man  ;  who  call  aloud 
For  ev'ry  bauble  drivell'd  o'er  by  sense. 
For  rattles  and  conceits  of  every  cast ; 
For  change  of  follies,  and  relays  of  joy, 
To  drag  you  patient  through  the  tedious  length 
Of  a  short  winter's  day — say,  sages,  say ! 


NIGHT     II.  41 


Wit's  oracles ;  say,  dreamers  of  gay  dreams ; 
How  will  you  weather  an  eternal  night, 
Where  such  expedients  fail  ? 

0  treach'rous  Conscience  !  while  she  seems  to  sleep 
On  rose  and  myrtle,  luU'd  with  siren  song ; 
While  she  seems  nodding  o'er  her  charge,  to  drop 
On  headlong  appetite  the  slacken'd  rein, 
And  give  us  up  to  license,  unrecall'd, 
Unmark'd ; — see,  from  behind  her  secret  stand. 
The  sly  informer  minutes  ev'ry  fault. 
And  her  dread  diary  with  horror  fills. 
Not  the  gross  act  alone  employs  her  pen : 
She  reconnoitres  Fancy's  airy  band, 
A  watchful  foe  !  the  formidable  spy, 
List'ning,  o'erhears  the  whispers  of  our  camp. 
Our  dawning  purposes  of  heart  explores, 
And  steals  our  embryos  of  iniquity. 
As  all-rapacious  usurers  conceal 
Their  doomsday-book  from  all-consuming  heirs ; 
Thus,  with  indulgence  most  severe,  she  treats 
Us  spendthrifts  of  inestimable  time ; 
Unnoted,  notes  each  moment  misapplied  ; 


12  THECOMPLAINT. 

In  leaves  more  durable  than  leaves  of  brass 

Writes  our  whole  history,  which  Death  shall  read 

In  ev'ry  pale  delinquent's  private  ear ; 

And  Judgment  publish  ;  pubHsh  to  more  worlds 

Than  this ;  and  endless  Age  in  groans  resound. 

Lorenzo,  such  that  sleeper  in  thy  breast ! 

Such  is  her  slumber,  and  her  vengeance  such 

For  slighted  counsel :  such  thy  future  peace  ! 

And  think'st  thou  still  thou  canst  be  wise  too  soon  ? 

But  why  on  time  so  lavish  is  my  song  ? 
On  this  great  theme  kind  Nature  keeps  a  school, 
To  teach  her  sons  herself.   -  Each  niglit  we  die ; 
Each  morn  are  born  anew ;  each  day  a  life  ! 
And  shall  we  kill  each  day  ?     If  trifling  kills, 
Sure  vice  must  butcher.     0  what  heaps  of  slain 
Cry  out  for  vengeance  on  us  !     Time  destroy'd 
Is  suicide,  where  more  than  blood  is  spilt. 
TTirne  flie^  death  urges,  knells  call,  heav'n  invites, 
Helt  threatens  ;  all  exerts  ;  in  effort  all ; 
More  than  creation  labors  ! — labors  more  ! 
And  is  there  in  creation,  what,  amidst 
This  tumuli  universal,  wing'd  despatch, 


NIGHT     II.  4  3 


And  ardent  energy,  supine  y  yawns  ? — 

Man  sleeps,  and  man  alone ^  and  man,  whose  fate, 

Fate  irreversible,  entire,  extreme, 

Endless,  hair-hung,  breeze-shaken,  o'er  the  gulf 

A  moment  trembles ;  drops  !  and  man,  for  whom 

All  else  is  in  alarm  ;  man,  the  sole  cause 

Of  this  surrounding  storm  !  and  yet  he  sleeps. 

As  the  storm  rock'd  to  rest. — Throw  years  away  ? 

Throw  empires,  and  be  blameless.     Moments  seize, 

Heav'n  's  on  their  wing  ;  a  moment  we  may  wish. 

When  worlds  want  wealth  to  buy.    Bid  day  stand  sti J, 

Bid  him  drive  back  his  car,  recall,  retake 

Fate's  hasty  prey  :  implore  him  reimpart 

The  period  past,  regive  the  given  hour. 

Lorenzo,  more  than  miracles  we  want ; 

Lorenzo — 0  for  yesterdays  to  come  ! 

!         Such  is  the  language  of  the  man  awake ; 

j     His  ardor  such  for  what  oppresses  thee. 

i 

I     And  is  his  ardor  vain,  Lorenzo  ?     No  ; 

j     That  more  than  miracle  the  gods  indulge : 

To-day  is  yesterday  return'd ;  return'd, 

I     Fua  pow'r'd  to  cancel,  expiate,  raise,  adorn. 


44  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  reinstate  us  on  the  rock  of  peace. 
Let  it  not  share  its  predecessor's  fate, 
Nor  hke  its  elder  sisters,  die  a  fool. 
Shall  it  evaporate  in  fume,  fly  off 
Fuliginous,  and  stain  us  deeper  still? 
Shall  we  be  poorer  for  the  plenty  pour'd  ? 
More  wretched  for  the  clemencies  of  Heav'n  ? 

Where  shall  I  find  him  ?  angels,  tell  me  where  : 
You  know  him ;  he  is  near  you ;  point  him  out. 
Shall  I  see  glories  beaming  from  his  brow. 
Or  trace  his  footsteps  by  the  rising  flowers  ? 
Your  golden  wings,  now  hovering  o'er  him,  shed 
Protection  ;  now  are  waving  in  applause 
To  that  blest  son  of  foresight — lord  of  fate  ! 
That  awful  independent  on  to-morrow  ! 
Whose  work  is  done ;  who  triumphs  in  the  past ; 
Whose  yesterdays  look  backwards  with  a  smile  ; 
Nor,  like  the  Parthian,  wound  him  as  they  fly  : 
That  common  but  opprobrious  lot !     Past  hours. 
If  not  by  guilt,  yet  wound  us  by  their  flight, 
If  folly  bounds  our  prospect  by  the  grave. 
All  feeling  of  futurity  benumb'd ; 


NIGHTII.  45 


All  god-like  passion  for  eternals  quencli'd ; 

All  relish  of  realities  expired ; 

Renounced  all  correspondence  with  the  skies  ; 

Our  freedom  chain'd ;  quite  wingless  our  desire ; 

In  sense  dark-prison'd  all  that  ought  to  soar ! 

Prone  to  the  centre ;  crawling  in  the  dust : 

Dismounted  ev'ry  great  and  glorious  aim ; 

Embruted  ev'ry  faculty  divine ; 

Heart -buried  in  the  rubbish  of  the  world. 

The  world,  that  gulf  of  souls,  immortal  souls. 

Souls  elevate,  angelic,  wing'd  with  fire 

To  reach  the  distant  skies,  and  triumph  there 

On  thrones  which  shall  not  mourn  their  masters  changed  ; 

Though  we  from  earth ;  ethereal,  they  that  fell. 

Such  veneration  due,  0  man,  to  man. 

Who  venerate  themselves,  the  world  despise. 
For  what,  gay  friend,  is  this  escutcheon'd  world. 
Which  hangs  out  death  in  one  eternal  night  ? 
A  night  that  glooms  us  in  the  noon-tide  ray, 
And  wraps  our  thought,  at  banquets,  in  the  shroud. 
Life's  little  staore  is  a  small  eminence,  3     " 

____^~S! __'^ 

Inch-high  the  grave  above ;  that  home  of  man. 


46  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Where  dwells  the  multitude  :  we  gaze  around  ; 
We  read  their  monuments ;  we  sigh  ;  and  while 
We  sigh,  we  sink ;  and  are  what  we  deplored : 
Lamenting,  or  lamented,  all  our  lot ! 

Is  Death  at  distance  ?     No :  he  has  been  on  thee  ; 
And  giv'n  sure  earnest  of  his  final  blow. 
Those  hours  which  lately  smiled,  where  are  they  now  ? 
Pallid  to  thought,  and  ghastly !  drown'd,  all  drown'd. 
In  tliat  great  deep,  which  nothing  disembogues  ! 
And  dying,  they  bequeathed  thee  small  renown. 
The  rest  are  on  the  wing :  how  fleet  their  flight ! 
Already  has  the  fatal  train  took  fire ; 
A  moment,  and  the  world's  blown  up  to  thee  ; 
The  sun  is  darkness,  and  the  stars  are  dust. 

'Tis  greatly  wise  to  talk  with  our  past  hours ; 
And  ask  them  what  report  they  bore  to  heav'n ; 
And  how  they  might  have  borne  more  welcome  news. 
Their  answers  form  what  men  experience  call ; 
If  Wisdom's  friend,  her  best ;  if  not,  worst  foe. 
O  reconcile  them  !  kind  Experience  cries, 
"  There's  nothing  here,  but  what  as  nothing  weighs  : 
The  more  our  joy,  the  more  we  know  it  vain ; 


1 


NIGHT     II.  47 


And  by  success  are  tutor'd  to  despair." 
IN'or  is  it  only  thus,  but  must  be  so. 
Who  knows  not  this,  though  gray,  is  still  a  child. 
Loose  then  from  earth  the  grasp  of  fond  desire. 
Weigh  anchor,  and  some  happier  clime  explore. 
Art  thou  so  moor'd  thou  canst  not  disengage, 
Nor  give  thy  thoughts  a  ply  to  future  scenes  ? 
Since  by  life's  passing  breath,  blown  up  from  earth, 
Light  as  the  summer's  dust,  we  take  in  air 
A  moment's  giddy  flight,  and  fall  again ; 
Join  the  dull  mass,  increase  the  trodden  soil. 
And  sleep,  till  earth  herself  shall  be  no  more ; 
Since  then  (as  emmets,  their  small  world  o'erthrown) 
We,  sore  amaz'd,  from  out  earth's  ruins  crawl. 
And  rise  to  fate  extreme  of  foul  or  fair. 
As  man's  own  choice  (controller  of  the  skies,) 
As  man's  despotic  will,  perhaps  one  hour, 
(0  how  omnipotent  is  time  !)  decrees ; 
Should  not  each  warning  give  a  strong  alarm  ? 
Warning,  far  less  than  that  of  bosom  torn 
From  bosom,  bleeding  o'er  the  sacred  dead  ; 
Should  not  each  dial  strike  us  as  we  pass, 


48  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Portentous,  as  the  written  wall  which  struck, 
O'er  midnight  bowls,  the  proud  Assyrian  pale, 
Erewhile  high  flush'd  with  insolence  and  wine  1 
Like  that  the  dial  speaks,  and  points  to  thee, 
Lorenzo !  loth  to  break  the  banquet  up. 
"  0  man  !  thy  kingdom  is  departing  from  thee  ; 
And,  while  it  lasts,  is  emptier  than  my  shade." 
Its  silent  language  such  ;  nor  need'st  thou  call 
Thy  magi  to  decipher  what  it  means. 
Know,  like  the  Median,  Fate  is  in  thy  walls ; 
Dost  ask  how  ?  whence  ?  Belshazzar-like  amazed. 
Man's  make  encloses  the  sure  seeds  of  death ; 
Life  feeds  the  murderer ;  ingrate  !  he  thrives 
On  her  own  meal,  and  then  his  nurse  devours. 

But  here,  Lorenzo,  the  delusion  hes  ; 
That  solar  shadow,  as  it  measures  life, 
It  life  resembles  too  :  life  speeds  away 
From  point  to  point,  though  seeming  to  stand  still. 
The  cunning  fugitive  is  swift  by  stealth  ; 
Too  subtle  is  the  movement  to  be  seen  ; 
Yet  soon  man's  hour  is  up,  and  we  are  gone. 
Warnings  point  out  our  danger  ;  gnomons,  time ; 


NIGHTII.  49 


As  these  are  useless  when  the  sun  is  set, 
So  those,  but  when  more  glorious  reason  s.hines. 
Reason  should  judge  in  all ;  in  reason's  eye, 
That  sedentary  shadow  travels  hard  : 
But  such  our  gravitation  to  the  wrong. 
So  prone  our  hearts  to  whisper  what  we  wish, 
'Tis  later  with  the  wise  than  he  's  aware  : 
A  Wilmington  goes  slower  than  the  sun ; 
And  all  mankind  mistake  their  time  of  day ; 
Ev'n  age  itself.     Fresh  hopes  are  hourly  sown 
In  furrow'd  brows.     So  gentle  life's  descent, 
We  shut  our  eyes,  and  think  it  is  a  plain. 
We  take  fair  days  in  winter  for  the  spring. 
And  turn  our  blessings  into  bane.     Since  oft 
Man  must  compute  that  age  he  cannot  feel. 
He  scarce  believes  he 's  older  for  his  years : 
Thus  at  life's  latest  eve,  we  keep  in  store 
One  disappointment  sure,  to  crown  the  rest — 
The  disappointment  of  a  promised  hour. 

On  this  or  similar.  Philander,  thou, 
AVhose  mind  was  moral  as  the  preacher's  tongue 
And  stronsf  to  wield  all  science  worth  the  name ; 


60  THE     COMPLAINT. 

How  often  we  talk'd  down  the  summer's  sun, 
And  cool'd  our  passions  by  the  breezy  stream  ! 
How  often  thaw'd  and  shorten'd  winter's  eve, 
By  conflict  kind,  that  struck  out  latent  truth. 
Best  found  so  sought ;  to  the  recluse  more  coy  ! 
Thoughts  disentangle,  passing  o'er  the  lip ; 
Clean  runs  the  thread ;  if  not,  'tis  thrown  away, 
Or  kept  to  tie  up  nonsense  for  a  song ; 
Song,  fashionably  fruitless ;  such  as  strains 
The  fancy,  and  unhallow'd  passion  fires, 
Chiming  her  saints  to  Cytherea's  fane. 

Know'st  thou,  Lorenzo,  what  a  friend  contains  ? 
As  bees  mix'd  nectar  draw  from  fragrant  flow'rs, 
So  men  fiom  friendship,  wisdom  and  delight ; 
Twins  tied  by  nature ;  if  they  part,  they  die. 
Hast  thou  no  friend  to  set  thy  mind  abroach  ? 
Good  sense  will  stagnate.    Thoughts  shut  up,  want  aii; 
And  spoil,  like  bales  unopened  to  the  sun. 
Had  thought  been  all,  sweet  speech  had  been  denied ; 
Speech,    thought's  canal,    speech,   thought's   criterion 

too! 
Thought  in  the  mine  may  come  forth  gold  or  dross ; 


NIGHT     II.  5J 


When  coin'd  in  words,  we  know  its  real  wortii : 
If  sterling,  store  it  for  thy  future  use ; 
Twill  buy  thee  benefit,  perhaps  renown. 
Thought,  too,  deliver'd,  is  the  more  possess'd ; 
'Teaching  we  learn,  and  giving  we  retain 
The  births  of  intellect;  when  dumb,  forgot. 
Speech  ventilates  our  intellectual  fire ; 
Speech  burnishes  our  mental  magazine ; 
Brightens  for  ornament,  and  whets  for  use. 
What  numbers,  sheath'd  in  erudition,  lie 
Plunged  to  the  hilts  in  venerable  tomes, 
And  rusted  in ;  who  might  have  borne  an  edge, 
And  play'd  a  sprightly  beam,  if  born  to  speech ! 
If  born  blest  heirs  of  half  their  mother's  tongue ! 
'Tis  thought's  exchange,  which,  like  th'  alternate  push 
Of  waves  conflicting,  breaks  the  learned  scum. 
And  defecates  the  student's  standing  pool. 
In  contemplation  is  his  proud  resource  ? 
'Tis  poor  as  proud,  by  converse  unsustain'd : 
Rude  thought  runs  wild  in  contemplation's  field  ; 
Converse,  the  menage,  breaks  it  to  the  bit 
Of  due  restraint,  and  emulation's  spur 


62  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Gives  graceful  energy,  by  rivals  awed. 

'Tis  converse  qualifies  for  solitude. 

As  exercise  for  salutary  rest ; 

By  that  untutor'd,  contemplation  raves, 

A  lunar  prince,  or  famisli'd  beggar  dies ; 

And  nature's  fool  by  wisdom's  is  outdone. 

Wisdom,  though  richer  than  Peruvian  mines, 
And  sweeter  than  the  sweet  ambrosial  hive. 
What  is  she  but  the  means  of  happiness  ? 
That,  unobtain'd,  than  folly  more  a  fool; 
A  melancholy  fool,  without  her  bells. 
Friendship  the  means,  and  friendship  richly  gives 
The  precious  end  which  makes  our  wisdom  wise. 
Nature,  in  zeal  for  human  amity. 
Denies  or  damps  an  undivided  joy. 
Joy  is  an  import ;  joy  is  an  exchange ; 
Joy  flies  monopolists  ;  it  calls  for  two : 
Rich  fruit !  heav'n-planted  !  never  pluck'd  by  one. 
Needful  auxiliars  are  our  friends,  to  give 
To  social  man  true  relish  of  himself. 
Full  on  ourselves  descending  in  a  line, 
Pleasure's  bright  beam  is  feeble  in  delight : 


NIGHT     II. 


Delight  intense  is  taken  by  rebound ; 

Reverberated  pleasures  fire  tlie  breast. 
Celestial  happiness  !  whene'er  she  stoops 

To  visit  earth,  one  shrine  the  goddess  finds, 

And  one  alone,  to  make  her  sweet  amends 

For  absent  heav'n — the  bosom  of  a  friend  ; 

Where  heart  meets  heart,  reciprocally  soft. 

Each  other's  pillow  to  repose  divine. 

Beware  the  counterfeit ;  in  passion's  flame 

Hearts  melt,  but  melt  like  ice,  soon  harder  frcss. 

True  love  strikes  root  in  reason,  passion's  foe  ; 
I     Virtue  alone  entenders  us  for  life ; 
!     I  wrono-  her  much — entenders  us  forever. 
I     Of  friendship's  fairest  fruits,  the  fruit  most  fa:r 
;     Is  virtue  kindling  at  a  rival  fire. 

And  eraulously  rapid  in  her  race. 

0  the  soft  enmity  !  endearing  strife  ! 

This  carries  friendship  to  her  noon-tide  point 

And  gives  the  rivet  of  eternity. 

From  Friendship,  which  outlives  my  forrc(  j    hciii«js,       i 

Glorious  survivor  of  old  Time  and  Death  ! 

From  friendship  thus,  that  flower  of  heav'nly  ^ee-d. 


54  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  wise  extract  earth's  most  Hyblean  bliss, 
Superior  wisdom,  crown'd  with  smihng  joy. 
For  joy,  from  friendship  born,  abounds  in  smiles. 
O  store  it  in  the  soul's  most  golden  cell ! 

But  for  whom  blossoms  this  Elysian  flower  ? 
Abroad  they  find,  who  cherish  it  at  home. 
Lorenzo,  pardon  what  my  love  extorts. 
An  honest  love,  and  not  afraid  to  frown, 
Though  choice  of  folHes  fasten  on  the  great, 
None  clings  more  obstinate  than  fancy  fond. 
That  sacred  friendship  is  their  easy  prey. 
Caught  by  the  wafture  of  a  golden  lure. 
Or  fascination  of  a  high-born  smile. 
Their  smiles,  the  great  and  the  coquet  throw  out 
For  others'  hearts,  tenacious  of  their  own ; 
And  we  no  less  of  ours,  when  such  the  bait. 
Ye  fortune's  cofferers  !  ye  powers  of  wealth ! 
You  do  your  rent-rolls  most  felonious  wrong. 
By  taking  our  attachment  to  yourselves. 
Can  gold  gain  friendship  ?     Impudence  of  hope  ! 
As  well  mere  man  an  angel  might  beget.      ^ 
Love,  and  love  only,  is  the  loan  for  love. 


N  I  G  H  T     1 1 .  6b 


Lorenzo,  pride  repress,  nor  hope  to  find 
A  friend,  but  what  has  found  a  friend  in  thee. 
All  like  the  purchase,  few  the  price  will  pay  : 
And  this  makes  friends  such  miracles  below. 

What  if  (since  daring  on  so  nice  a  theme) 
I  show  thee  friendship  delicate  as  dear. 
Of  tender  violations  apt  to  die  ? 
Reserve  will  wound  it,  and  distrust  destroy. 
Deliberate  on  all  things  with  thy  friend : 
But  since  friends  grow  not  thick  on  every  bough, 
Nor  ev'ry  friend  unrotten  at  the  core  ; 
First  on  thy  friend  delib'rate  with  thyself; 
Pause,  ponder,  sift ;  not  eager  in  the  choice. 
Nor  jealous  of  the  chosen :  fixing,  fix : 
Judge  before  friendship,  then  confide  till  death. 
Well  for  thy  friend,  but  nobler  far  for  thee  : 
How  gallant  danger  for  earth's  highest  prize  ! 
A  friend  is  worth  all  hazards  we  can  run. 
"  Poor  is  the  friendless  master  of  a  world : 
A  world  in  purchase  for  a  friend  is  gain." 

So  sung  he,  (angels  hear  that  angel  sing! 
Angels  from  friendship  gather  half  their  joy  !) 


60  THE     COMPLAINT. 

So  sung  Philander,  as  his  friend  went  round 
In  the  rich  ichor,  in  the  gen'rous  blood 
Of  Bacchus,  purple  god  of  joyous  wit, 
A  brow  solute,  and  ever-laughing  eye. 
He  drank  long  health  and  virtue  to  his  friend  ; 
His   friend !    who  warm'd   him   more,  who  more  in- 
spired. 
Friendship  's  the  wine  of  life ;  but  friendship  new 
(Not  such  was  his)  is  neither  strong  nor  pure. 

0  !  for  the  bright  complexion,  cordial  warmth, 
And  elevating  spirit  of  a  friend. 

For  twenty  summers  ripening  by  my  side  ; 
All  feculence  of  falsehood  long  thrown  down  ; 
All  social  virtues  rising  in  his  soul ; 
As  crystal  clear,  and  smiling  as  they  rise  ! 
Here  nectar  flows  !  it  sparkles  in  our  sight ; 
Rich  to  the  taste,  and  genuine  from  the  heart. 
High  flavor'd  bliss  for  gods  !  on  earth  how  rare  ! 
On  earth  how  lost ! — Philander  is  no  more. 

Think'st  thou  the  theme  intoxicates  my  song  ? 
Am  I  too  warm?     Too  warm  I  cannot  be. 

1  loved  him  much,  but  now  I  love  him  more. 


NIGHT     II.  5V 


Like  birds,  whose  beauties  languish,  half  conceal'd, 
Till,  mounted  on  the  wing,  their  glossy  plumes 
Expanded  shine  with  azure,  green,  and  gold  ; 
How  blessings  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight ! 
His  flight  Philander  took :  his  upward  flight ! 
If  ever  soul  ascended.     Had  he  dropt, 
(That  eagle  genius  !)  O  had  he  let  fall 
One  feather  as  he  flew,  I  then  had  wrote 
What  friends  might  flatter,  prudent  foes  forbear. 
Rivals  scarce  damn,  and  Zoilus  reprieve. 
Yet  what  I  can  I  must :  it  were  profane 
To  quench  a  glory  lighted  at  the  skies, 
And  cast  in  shadows  his  illustrious  close. 
Strange !  the  theme  most  afiecting,  most  sublime, 
Momentous  most  to  man,  should  sleep  unsung ! 
And  yet  it  sleeps,  by  genius  unawaked, 
Paynim  or  Christian  ;  to  the  blush  of  wit. 
Man's  highest  triumph,  man's  profoundest  fall. 
The  death-bed  of  the  just !  is  yet  undrawn 
By  mortal  hand ;  it  merits  a  divine  : 
Angels  should  paint  it,  angels  ever  there ; 
There,  on  a  post  of  honor  and  of  joy. 


8* 


58  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Dare  I  presume,  then  ?  but  Philander  bids, 
And  glory  tempts,  and  indination  calls. 
Yet  am  I  struck,  as  struck  the  soul  beneath 
Aerial  groves'  impenetrable  gloom. 
Or  in  some  mighty  ruin's  solemn  shade. 
Or  gazing,  by  pale  lamps,  on  high-born  dust 
In  vaults,  thin  courts  of  poor  unflattered  kings, 
Or  at  the  midnight  altar's  hallow'd  flame. 
It  is  religion  to  proceed :  I  pause — 
And  enter,  awed,  the  temple  of  my  theme. 
Is  it  his  death-bed  ?     No  ;  it  is  his  shrine 
Behold  him,  there,  just  rising  to  a  god. 

The  chamber  where  the  good  man  meets  his  fate 
Is  privileged  beyond  the  common  walk 
Of  virtuous  life,  quite  in  the  verge  of  Heav'n. 
Fly,  ye  profane  !  if  not,  draw  near  with  awe ; 
Receive  the  blessing,  and  adore  the  chance 
That  threw  in  this  Bethesda  your  disease  : 
If  unrestored  by  this,  despair  your  cure : 
For  here  resistless  demonstration  dwells  : 
A  death-bed  's  a  detector  of  the  heart. 
Here  tired  Dissimulation  drops  her  mask. 


NIGHT     II.  59 


Through  life's  grimace,  that  mistress  of  the  scene ! 

Here  real  and  apparent  are  the  same. 

You  see  the  man,  you  see  his  hold  on  Heav'n ; 

If  sound  his  virtue ;  as  Philander's,  sound. 

Heav'n  waits  not  the  last  moment ;  owns  her  friends 

On  this  side  death,  and  points  them  out  to  men ; 

A  lecture  silent,  but  of  sov'reign  pow'r ! 

To  vice  confusion,  and  to  virtue  peace. 

Whatever  farce  the  boastful  hero  plays, 
Virtue  alone  has  majesty  in  death, 
And  greater  still,  the  more  the  tyrant  frowns. 
Philander !  he  severely  frown'd  on  thee ; 
"  !No  warning  giv'n:  unceremonious  fate  ! 
A  sudden  rush  from  life's  meridian  joys  ! 
A  wrench  from  all  we  love !  from  all  we  are ! 
A  restless  bed  of  pain !  a  plunge  opaque 
Beyond  conjecture  !  feeble  Nature's  dread  ! 
Strong  Reason's  shudder  at  the  dark  unknown ! 
A  sun  extinguish'd !  a  just  opening  grave  ! 
And,  oh !  the  last,  last — what  ?  (can  words  express ; 
Thought  reach  ?)  the  last,  last — silence  of  a  friend !" 
Where  are  those  horrors,  that  amazement  where. 


60  THE     COMPLAIN  1. 

This  hideous  group  of  ills  (which  singly  shock) 
Demands  from  man  ? — I  thought  him  man  till  now. 

Thro'  nature's  wreck,  thro'  vanquish'd  agonies, 
(Like  the  stars  struggling  thro'  this  midnight  gloom) 
"What  gleams  of  joy  !  what  more  than  human  peace  ! 
Where  the  frail  mortal?  the  poor  abject  wonn ? 
No,  not  in  death  the  mortal  to  be  found. 
His  conduct  is  a  legacy  for  all. 
Richer  than  Mammon's  for  his  single  heir. 
His  comforters  he  comforts ;  great  in  ruin. 
With  unreluctant  grandeur  gives,  not  yields. 
His  soul  subhme,  and  closes  with  his  fate. 

How  our  hearts  burnt  within  us  at  the  scene  ! 
Whence  this  brave  bound  o'er  limits  fix'd  to  man  ? 
His  God  sustains  him  in  his  final  hour  ! 
His  final  hour  brings  glory  to  his  God ! 
Man's  glory  Heav'n  vouchsafes  to  call  her  own. 
We  gaze,  we  weep  !  mix'd  tears  of  grief  and  joy ! 
Amazement  strikes  !  devotion  bursts  to  flame  ! 
Christians  adore !  and  infidels  believe. 

As  some  tall  tow'r,  or  lofty  mountain's  brow. 
Detains  the  sun,  illustrious  from  its  height, 


NIGHT     II.  61 


While  rising  vapors,  and  descending  shades. 

With  damps,  and  darkness,  drown  the  spacious  vale ; 

Undamp'd  by  doubt,  undarken'd  by  despair. 

Philander  thus  augustly  rears  his  head, 

At  that  black  hour,  which  gen'ral  horror  sheds 

On  the  low  level  of  th'  inglorious  throng : 

Sweet  peace,  and  heav'nly  hope,  and  humble  joy, 

Divinely  beam  on  his  exalted  soul ; 

Destruction  gild,  and  crown  him  for  the  skies, 

With  incommunicable  lustre  bright. 


NIGHT  III. 

NARCISSA. 

Ignoscenda  quidem,  scirent  si  ignoscere  manes. — Virg. 


TO  HER  GRACE  THE  DUCHESS  OF  P- 


From  dreams,  where  thought  m  fancy's  maze  runs  mad, 
To  reason,  that  heav'n-hghted  lamp  in  man, 
Once  more  I  wake,  and  at  the  destined  hour. 
Punctual  as  lovers  to  the  moment  sworn, 
I  keep  my  assignation  with  my  woe. 

0  !  lost  to  virtue,  lost  to  manly  thought. 
Lost  to  the  noble  sallies  of  the  soul ! 
Who  think  it  sohtude  to  be  alone. 
Communion  sweet !  communion  large  and  high ! 
Our  reason,  guardian  angel,  and  our  God  ! 
Then  nearest  these,  when  others  most  remote. 
And  all,  ere  long,  shall  be  remote  but  these. 
How  dreadful,  then,  to  meet  them  all  alone. 


NIGHT     III.  63 


A  stranger !  unacknowledged !  unapproved  ! 

Now  woo  them,  wed  them,  bind  them  to  thy  breast ; 

To  win  thy  wish,  creation  has  no  more. 

Or  if  we  wish  a  fourth,  it  is  a  friend 

But  friends,  how  mortal !  dangerous  the  desire. 

Take  Phoebus  to  yourselves,  ye  basking  bards ! 
Inebriate  at  fair  Fortune's  fountain-head ; 
And  reeling  through  the  wilderness  of  joy. 
Where  sense  runs  savage,  broke  from  reason's  chain, 
And  sings  false  peace,  till  smother'd  by  the  pall. 
My  fortune  is  unlike  ;  unlike  my  song  ; 
Unlike  the  Deity  my  song  invokes. 
I  to  Day's  soft-eyed  sister  pay  my  court, 
(Endymion's  rival)  and  her  aid  implore  ; 
Now  first  implored  in  succor  to  the  muse. 
Thou,  who  didst  lately  borrow*  Cynthia's  form. 
And  modestly  forego  thine  own !  0  thou, 
Who  didst  thyself,  at  midnight  hours,  inspire  ! 
Say,  why  not  Cynthia  patroness  of  song  ? 
As  thou  her  crescent,  she  thy  character 
Assumes,  still  more  a  goddess  by  the  change. 

*  At  the  Duke  of  Norfolk's  masquerade. 


64  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Are  there  demurring  wits,  who  dare  dispute 
This  revohition  in  the  world  inspired  ? 
Ye  train  Pierian !  to  the  lunar  sphere, 
In  silent  hour,  address  your  ardent  call 
For  aid  immortal,  less  her  brother's  right. 
She  with  the  spheres  harmonious  nightly  leads 
The  mazy  dance,  and  hears  their  matchless  strain  ; 
A  strain  for  gods,  denied  to  mortal  ear. 
Transmit  it  heard,  thou  silver  queen  of  heav'n  ! 
What  title  or  what  name  endears  thee  most  ? 
Cynthia !  Cyllene  !  Phoebe  ! — or  dost  hear 

With  higher  gust,  fair  P d  of  the  skies  ? 

Is  that  the  soft  enchantment  calls  thee  down. 

More  pow'rful  than  of  old  Circean  charm  ? 

Come,  but  from  heav'nly  banquets  with  thee  bring 

The  soul  of  song,  and  whisper  in  mine  ear 

The  theft  divine ;  or  in  propitious  dreams 

(For  dreams  are  thine)  transfuse  it  thro'  the  breast 

Of  thy  first  votary but  not  thy  last. 

If,  like  thy  namesake,  thou  art  ever  kind. 

And  kind  thou  wilt  be,  kind  on  such  a  theme : 
A  theme  so  like  thee,  a  quite  lunar  theme, 


NIGHT     III.  05 


Soft,  modest,  melancholy-,  female,  fair ! 

A  theme  that  rose  all  pale,  and  told  my  soui 

'Twas  night :  on  her  fond  hopes  perpetual  night ,: 

A  night  which  struck  a  damp,  a  deadlier  damp 

Than  that  which  smote  me  from  Philander's  tomb. 

Narcissa  follows  ere  his  tomb  is  closed. 

Woes  cluster ;  rare  are  solitary  woes  ; 

They  love  a  train ;  they  tread  each  other's  heel ; 

Her  death  invades  his  mournful  right,  and  claims 

The  grief  that  started  from  my  lids  for  him ; 

Seizes  the  faithless  alienated  tear. 

Or  share  it  ere  it  falls.     So  frequent  deatn. 

Sorrow  he  more  than  causes  ;  he  confounds ; 

For  human  sights  his  rival  strokes  contend, 

And  make  distress  distraction.     0  Philander ! 

What  was  thy  fate  ?  a  double  fate  to  me  : 

Portent  and  pain  !  a  menace  and  a  blow ! 

Like  the  bJack  raven  hov'ring  o'er  my  peace, 

Not  less  a  bird  of  omen  than  of  prey. 

It  call'd  Narcissa  long  before  her  hour : 

It  call'd  her  tender  soul,  by  break  of  bliss, 

From  the  first  blossom,  from  the  buds  of  joy  ; 


66  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Those  few  our  noxious  fate  unblasted  leaves 
In  this  inclement  clime  of  human  hfe. 

Sweet  harmonist !  and  beautiful  as  sweet ! 
And  young  as  beautiful !  and  soft  as  young  ! 
And  gay  as  soft !  and  innocent  as  gay  ! 
And  happy  (if  ought  happy  here)  as  good  ! 
For  fortune  fond,  had  built  her  nest  on  high. 
Like  birds,  quite  exquisite  of  note  and  plume, 
Transfix'd  by  Fate  (who  loves  a  lofty  mark,) 
How  from  the  summit  of  the  grove  she  fell, 
And  left  it  unharmonious  !  all  its  charm 
Extinguish'd  in  the  wonders  of  her  song ! 
Her  song  still  vibrates  in  my  ravish 'd  ear, 
Still  melting  there,  and  with  voluptuous  pain 
(0  to  forget  her !)  thrilling  through  my  heart ! 

Song,  beauty,  youth,  love,  virtue,  joy  !   this  group 
Of  bright  ideas,  flow'rs  of  Paradise, 
As  yet  unforfoit  !  in  one  blaze  we  bind. 
Kneel,  and  present  it  to  the  skies,  as  all 
We  guess  of  Heav'n  ;  and  these  were  all  her  own ; 
And  she  was  mine  ;  and  I  was- —was  ! — most  blest — 
Gay  title  of  the  deepest  misery  ! 


N  I  G  H  T     1 1 1 .  67 


As  bodies  grow  more  pond'rous,  robb'd  of  life. 
Good  lost  weighs  more  in  grief  than  gain'd  in  joy. 
Like  blossom'd  trees  o'erturn'd  by  vernal  storm. 
Lovely  in  death  the  beauteous  ruin  lay ; 
And  if  in  death  still  lovely,  lovelier  there. 
Far  lovelier !     Pity  swells  the  tide  of  love. 
And  will  not  the  severe  excuse  a  sigh  ? 
Scorn  the  proud  man  that  is  ashamed  to  weep ; 
Our  tears  indulged,  indeed  deserve  our  shame. 
Ye  that  e'er  lost  an  angel,  pity  me  ! 

Soon  as  the  lustre  languish'd  in  her  eye. 
Dawning  a  dimmer  day  on  human  sight ; 
And  on  her  cheek,  the  residence  of  spring, 
Pale  Omen  sat ;  and  scatter'd  fears  around 
On  all  that  saw  (and  who  would  cease  to  gaze 
That  once  had  seen  ?)  with  haste,  parental  haste, 
I  flew,  I  snatch'd  her  from  the  rigid  north. 
Her  native  bed,  on  which  bleak  Boreas  blew. 
And  bore  her  nearer  to  the  sun  :  the  sun 
(As  if  the  sun  could  envy)  check'd  his  beam. 
Denied  his  wonted  succor ;  nor  with  more 


68  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Regret  beheld  her  drooping  than  the  bells 
Of  lilies  ;  fairest  lilies  not  so  fair ! 

Queen  lilies !  and  ye  painted  populace ! 
Who  dwell  in  fields,  and  lead  ambrosial  lives  ! 
In  morn  and  evening  dew  your  beauties  bathe. 
And  drink  the  sun  which  gives  your  cheeks  to  glow, 
And  out-blush  (mine  excepted)  ev'ry  fair ; 
You  gladlier  grew,  ambitious  of  her  hand. 
Which  often  cropt  your  odors,  incense  meet 
To  thought  so  pure  ;  her  flow'ry  state  of  mind 
In  joy  unfall'n.     Ye  lovely  fugitives  ! 
Coeval  race  with  man  !  for  man  you  smile  ; 
Why  not  smile  at  him  to  ?     You  share,  indeed. 
His  sudden  pass,  but  not  his  constant  pain. 
So  man  is  made,  nought  ministers  delight. 
But  what  his  glowing  passions  can  engage ; 
And  glowing  passions  bent  on  aught  below. 
Must,  soon  or  late,  with  anguish  turn  the  scale ; 
And  anguish  after  rapture,  how  severe  ! 
Rapture !  bold  man !  who  tempts  the  wrath  divine. 
By  plucking  fruit  denied  to  mortal  taste. 
While  here,  presuming  on  the  rights  of  Heav'n. 


NIGHT     III,  69 


For  transport  dost  thou  call  on  ev'ry  hour, 
Lorenzo  ?     At  thy  friend's  expense  be  wise : 
Lean  not  on  earth  :  'twill  pierce  thee  to  the  heart ; 
A  broken  reed  at  best ;  but  oft  a  spear  : 
On  its  sharp  point  peace  bleeds,  and  hope  expires. 

Turn,  hopeless  thought !  turn  from  her : — thought 
repell'd, 
Resenting  rallies,  and  wakes  ev'ry  woe. 
Snatch'd  ere  thy  prime !  and  in  thy  bridal  hour  ! 
And  when  kind  fortune,  with  thy  lover,  smil'd ! 
And  when  high-flavor'd  thy  fresh  op'ning  joys  ! 
And  when  blind  man  pronounc'd  thy  bliss  complete ! 
And  on  a  foreign  shore  where  strangers  wept ! 
Strangers  to  thee,  and,  more  surprising  still, 
Strangers  to  kindness,  wept.     Their  eyes  let  fall 
Inhuman  tears  !  strange  tears  !  that  trickled  down 
From  marble  hearts  !  obdurate  tenderness  ! 
A  tenderness  that  call'd  them  more  severe. 
In  spite  of  nature's  soft  persuasion  steel'd  ; 
While  nature  melted,  superstition  rav'd  ! 
That  mourn'd  the  dead,  and  this  denied  a  grave. 

Their  sighs  incensed  ;  sighs  foreign  to  the  will ! 


vo 


THE     C  OMPL  AINT, 


Their  will  the  tiger  suck'd,  outrag'd  the  storm  : 

For,  oh  !  the  curs'd  ungodliness  of  zeal ! 

While  sinful  flesh  relented,  spirit  nursed 

In  blind  infallibility's  embrace, 

The  sainted  spu-it  petrified  the  breast ; 

Denied  the  charity  of  dust  to  spread 

O'er  dust !  a  charity  their  dogs  enjoy. 

What  could  I  do  ?  what  succor  ?  what  resource  ? 

With  pious  sacrilege  a  grave  I  stole  ; 

With  impious  piety  that  grave  I  wrong'd  : 

Short  in  my  duty,  coward  in  my  grief ! 

More  like  her  murderer  than  friend,  I  crept 

With  soft  suspended  step,  and,  muffled  deep 

In  midnight  darkness,  whisper'd  my  last  sigh. 

I  whisper'd  what  should  echo  through  their  realms : 

Nor  writ  her  name,  whose  tomb  should  pierce  the  skies. 

Presumptuous  fear  !  how  durst  I  dread  her  foes. 

While  nature's  loudest  dictates  I  obey'd  ? 

Pardon  necessity,  blest  shade  !  of  grief 

And  indignation  rival  bursts  I  pour'd ; 

Half  execration  mingled  with  my  prayer ; 

Kindled  at  man,  Avhile  I  his  God  adored : 


NIGHT     III.  71 


Sore  grudged  the  savage  land  her  sacred  dust ; 
Stamp'd  the  cursed  soil ;  and  with  humanity 
(Denied  Narcissa)  wish'd  them  all  a  grave. 

Glows  my  resentment  into  guilt  ?     What  guilt 
Can  equal  violations  of  the  dead  ? 
The  dead  how  sacred  ?     Sacred  is  the  dust 
Of  this  heav'n-labor'd  form,  erect,  divine  ! 
This  heav'n-assumed  majestic  robe  of  earth 
He  deign'd  to  wear,  who  hung  the  vast  expanse 
With  azure  bright,  and  clothed  the  sun  in  gold. 
When  ev'ry  passion  sleeps  that  can  offend ; 
When  strikes  us  ev'ry  motive  that  can  melt ; 
When  man  can  wreak  his  rancor  uncontroll'd. 
That  strongest  curb  on  insult  and  ill-will ; 
Then,  spleen  to  dust  ?  the  dust  of  innocence  ? 
An  angel's  dust !     This  Lucifer  transcends  ; 
When  he  contended  for  the  patriarch's  bones. 
'Twas  not  the  strife  of  mahce,  but  of  pride ; 
The  strife  of  pontiff  pride,  not  pontiff  gall. 

Far  less  than  this  is  shocking  in  a  race 
Most  wretched,  but  from  streams  of  mutual  love  ; 
And  uncreated,  but  for  love  divine ; 


'72  THE     C  OMPLAIN  T. 


And  but  for  love  divine,  this  moment  lost, 
By  fate  resorb'd,  and  sunk  in  endless  night. 
Man  hard  of  heart  to  man !  of  horrid  things 
Most  horrid  !  'mid  stupendous,  highly  strange ! 
Yet  oft  his  courtesies  are  smoother  wrongs ; 
Pride  brandishes  the  favors  he  confers. 
And  contumelious  his  humanity  : 
What  then  his  vengeance  ?     Hear  it  not,  ye  stars  ! 
And  thou,  pale  moon  !  turn  paler  at  the  sound ; 
Man  is  to  man  the  sorest,  surest  ill. 
A  previous  blast  foretells  the  rising  storm  ; 
O'erwhelming  turrets  threaten  ere  they  fall ; 
Volcanoes  bellow  ere  they  disembogue ; 
Earth  trembles  ere  her  yawning  jaws  devour; 
And  smoke  betrays  the  wide-consuming  fire : 
Ruin  from  man  is  most  conceal'd  when  near. 
And  sends  the  dreadful  tidings  in  the  blov/. 
Is  this  the  flight  of  fancy  ?     Would  it  were ! 
Heav'n's  Sovereio^n  saves  all  being-s,  but  himself. 
That  hideous  sight,  a  naked  human  heart. 

Fir'd  is  the  muse  ?     And  let  the  muse  be  fir'd  • 
Who  not  inflam'd,  when  what  he  speaks  he  feels, 


NIGHT     III.  Is 

And  in  the  nerve  most  tender,  in  his  friends  ? 

Shame  to  mankind  !  Philander  had  his  foes  ; 

He  felt  the  truths  I  sing,  and  I  in  him : 

But  he  nor  I  feel  more.     Past  ills,  Narcissa  ! 

Are  sunk  in  thee,  thou  recent  wound  of  heart ! 

Which  bleeds  Avith  other  cares,  with  other  pangs  ; 

Pangs  num'rous  as  the  num'rous  ills  that  swarm'd 

O'er  thy  distinguish'd  fate,  and,  clust'ring  there. 

Thick  as  the  locust  on  the  land  of  Nile, 

Made  death  more  deadly,  and  more  dark  the  grave. 

Reflect  (if  not  forgot  my  touching  tale) 

How  was  each  circumstance  with  aspics  arni'd  ? 

An  aspic,  each  ;  and  all,  an  hydra-woe. 

What  strong  Herculean  virtue  could  suffice  ? — 

Or  is  it  virtue  to  be  conquer'd  here  ? 

This  hoary  cheek  a  train  of  tears  bedews  ; 

And  each  tear  mourns  its  own  distinct  distress ; 

And  each  distress,  distinctly  mourn'd,  demands 

Of  grief  still  more,  as  heightened  by  the  whole, 

A  grief  like  this  proprietors  excludes  : 

Not  friends  alone  such  obsequies  deplore ; 

They  make  mankind  the  mourner ;  carry  sighs 


^4  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Far  as  the  fatal  Fame  can  wing  her  way. 

And  turn  the  gayest  thought  of  gayest  age, 

Down  their  right  channel,  through  the  vale  of  death. 

The  vale  of  death  !  that  hush'd  Cimmerian  vale. 
Where  darkness,  brooding  o'er  unfinish'd  fates. 
With  raven  wing  incumbent,  waits  the  day 
(Dread  day  !)  that  interdicts  all  future  change. 
That  subterranean  world,  that  land  of  ruin  ! 
Fit  walk,  Lorenzo,  for  proud  human  thought  ! 
There  let  my  thought  expatiate  ;  and  explore 
Balsamic  truths,  and  healing  sentiments, 
Of  all  most  wanted,  and  most  welcome  here. 
For  gay  Lorenzo's  sake,  and  for  thy  own. 
My  soul !  "the  fruits  of  dying  friends  survey  ; 
Expose  the  vain  of  life  ;  weigh  life  and  death : 
Give  death  his  eulogy ;  thy  fear  subdued  ; 
And  labor  that  first  palm  of  noble  minds, 
A  manly  scorn  of  terror  from  the  tomb." 

This  harvest  reap  from  thy  Narcissa's  grave, 
As  poets  feign 'd  from  Ajax'  streaming  blood 
Arose,  with  grief  inscrib'd,  a  mournful  flow'r; 
Let  wisdom  blossom  from  my  mortal  wound. 


N  I  G  H  T     1 1  I .  75 


And  first,  of  dying  friends ;  what  fruit  from  these  ? 

It  brings  us  more  than  triple  aid  ;  an  aid 

To  chase  our  thoughtlessness,  fear,  pride,  and  guilt. 

Our  dying  friends  come  o'er  us  like  a  cloud, 
To  damp  our  brainless  ardors ;  and  abate 
That  glare  of  life,  which  often  blinds  the  wise. 
Our  dying  friends  are  pioneers,  to  smoothe 
Our  rugged  pass  to  death ;  to  break  those  bars 
Of  terror,  and  abhorrence,  nature  throws 
Cross  our  obstructed  way  ;  and,  thus,  to  make 
Welcome,  as  safe,  our  port  from  ev'ry  storm. 
Each  friend  by  fate  snatch'd  from  us,  is  a  plume 
Pluck'd  from  the  wing  of  human  vanity. 
Which  makes  us  stoop  from  our  aereal  heights. 
And,  damp'd  with  omen  of  our  own  decease. 
On  drooping  pinions  of  ambition  lower'd. 
Just  skim  earth's  surface,  ere  we  break  it  up. 
O'er  putrid  pride  to  scratch  a  little  dust. 
And  save  the  world  a  nuisance.     Smitten  friends 
Are  angels  sent  on  errands  full  of  love ; 
For  us  they  languish,  and  for  us  they  die : 
And  shall  they  languish,  shall  they  die  in  vain  ? 


V6  THE     C  OMPLAINT. 

Ungrateful,  shall  we  grieve  their  hov'ring  shades, 
Which  wait  the  revolution  in  our  hearts  ? 
Shall  we  disdain  their  silent,  soft  address  ; 
Their  posthumous  advice,  and  pious  prayer  ? 
Senseless,  as  herds  that  graze  their  hallow'd  graves. 
Tread  under  foot  their  agonies  and  groans  ; 
Frustrate  their  anguish,  and  destroy  their  deaths  ? 

Lorenzo  !  no ;  the  thought  of  death  indulge ; 
Give  it  its  wholesome  empire ;  let  it  reign, 
That  kind  chastiser  of  the  soul  to  joy ! 
Its  reign  will  spread  thy  glorious  conquests  far. 
And  still  the  tumults  of  thy  ruffled  breast : 
Auspicious  era  !  golden  days,  begin  ! 
The  thought  of  death,  shall,  hke  a  god,  inspire. 
And  why  not  think  of  death  ?     Is  life  the  theme 
Of  ev'ry  thought  ?  and  wish  of  ev'ry  hour  ? 
And  song  of  ev'ry  joy  ?     Surprising  truth  ! 
The  beaten  spaniel's  fondness  not  so  strange. 
To  wave  the  numerous  ills  that  seize  on  life 
As  their  own  property,  their  lawful  prey ; 
Ere  man  has  moasur'd  half  his  weary  stage, 
His  luxuries  have  left  him  no  reserve. 


NIGHT     III.  77 


No  maiden  relishes,  unbroach'd  delights  ; 
On  cold-served  repetitions  he  subsists, 
And  in  the  tasteless  present  chews  the  past ; 
Disgusted  chews,  and  scarce  can  swallow  down. 
Like  lavish  ancestors,  his  earher  years 
Have  disinherited  his  future  hours, 
Which  starve  on  orts,  and  glean  their  former  field. 
Live  ever  here,  Lorenzo  ? — shocking  thought  1  ■ 
So  shocking,  they  who  wish,  disown  it  too  ; 
Disown  from  shame,  what  they  from  folly  crave. 
Live  ever  in  the  womb,  nor  see  the  light  ? 
For  what  live  ever  here  ? — with  laboring  step 
To  tread  our  former  footsteps  ?  pace  the  round 
Eternal  ?  to  climb  daily  life's  worn  wheel, 
Which  draws  up  nothing  new  ?  to  beat  and  beat, 
The  beaten  track  ?  to  bid  each  wretched  day 
The  former  mock  ?  to  surfeit  on  the  same. 
And  yawn  our  joys  ?  or  thank  a  misery 
For  change,  though  sad  ?  to  see  what  we  have  seen  ? 
Hear,  till  unheard,  the  same  old  slabber'd  tale  ? 
To  taste  the  tasted,  and  at  each  return 
Less  tasteful  ?  o'er  our  palates  to  decani, 


18 


THE     C  OMP  LAINT. 


Another  vintage  ?  strain  a  flatter  year. 
Through  loaded  vessels,  and  a  laxer  tone  ? 
Crazy  machines  to  grind  earth's  wasted  fruits  ! 
Ill-ground,  and  worse  concocted  !  load,  not  life  ! 
The  rational  foul  kennels  of  excess  ! 
Still-streaming  thoroughfares  of  dull  debauch 
Trembling  each   gulp,  lest  death  should  snatch   the 
bowl. 
Such  of  our  fine  ones  is  the  wish  refin'd ! 
So  would  they  have  it :  elegant  desire  ! 
Why  not  invite  the  bellowing  stalls,  and  wilds  ? 
But  such  examples  might  their  riot  awe. 
Through  want  of  virtue,  that  is,  want  of  thought, 
(Though  on  bright  tliought  they  father  all  their  flights) 
To  what  are  they  reduced  ?     To  love,  and  hate, 
The  same  vain  world ;  to  censure,  and  espouse. 
This  painted  shrew  of  life,  who  calls  them  fool 
Each  moment  of  each  day ;  to  flatter  bad 
Through  dread  of  worse  ;  to  cling  to  this  rude  rock, 
Barren,  to  them,  of  good,  and  sharp  with  ills. 
And  hourly  blacken'd  with  impending  storms, 
And  infamous  for  wrecks  of  human  hope- 


NIGHT     III.  79 


Scar'd  at  the  gloomy  gulf,  that  yawns  beneath. 
Such  are  their  triumphs !  such  their  pangs  of  joy  ! 

'Tis  time,  high  time  to  shift  this  dismal  scene. 
This  hugg'd,  this  hideous  state,  what  art  can  cure  ? 
One  only ;  but  that  one,  what  all  may  reach ; 
Virtue — she,  wonder-working  goddess  !  charms 
That  rock  to  bloom ;  and  tames  the  painted  shrew ; 
And  what  will  more  surprise,  Lorenzo  !  gives 
To  life's  sick,  nauseous  iteration,  change  ; 
And  straitens  nature's  circle  to  a  line. 
Believ'st  thou  this,  Lorenzo  ?  lend  an  ear, 
A  patient  ear,  thou  'It  blush  to  disbelieve. 

A  languid,  leaden  iteration  reigns. 
And  ever  must,  o'er  those,  whose  joys  are  joys 
Of  sight,  smell,  taste  ;  the  cuckoo-seasons  sing 
The  same  dull  note  to  such  as  nothing  prize, 
But  what  those  seasons,  from  the  teeming  earth, 
To  doatinir  sense  induVe.     But  nobler  minds. 
Which  relish  fruits  unripen'd  by  the  sun. 
Make  their  days  various  ;  various  as  the  dyes 
On  the  dove's  neck,  which  wanton  in  his  rays. 
On  minds  of  dove-like  innocence  possess'd, 


80  THE     COMPLAINT. 

On  light'ned  minds,  that  bask  in  virtue's  beams, 
Nothing  hangs  tedious,  nothing  old  revolves 
In  that,  for  which  they  long ;  for  which  they  live. 
Their  glorious  efforts,  wing'd  with  heav'nly  hope. 
Each  rising  morning  sees  still  higher  rise  ; 
Each  bounteous  dawn  its  novelty  presents 
To  worth  maturing,  new  strength,  lustre,  fame ; 
While  nature's  circle,  like  a  chariot-wheel 
Rolling  beneath  their  elevated  aims. 
Makes  their  fair  prospect  fairer  ev'ry  hour  ; 
Advancing  virtue  in  a  line  to  bliss  ; 
Virtue,  which  Christian  motives  best  inspire ! 
And  bliss,  which  Christian  schemes  alone  ensure  ! 
And  shall  we  then,  for  virtue's  sake,  commence 
Apostates  ?  and  turn  infidels  for  joy  ? 
A  truth  it  is,  few  doubt,  but  fewer  trust, 
"  He  sins  against  this  life,  who  slights  the  next." 
What  is  this  life  ?  how  few  their  fav'rite  know  ? 
Fond  in  the  dark,  and  blind  in  our  embrace. 
By  passionately  loving  life  we  make 
Lov'd  life  unlovely ;  hugging  her  to  death. 
I     We  give  to  time  eternity's  regard  ; 


NIGHT     III.  81 


And  dreaming,  take  our  passage  for  our  port. 
Life  has  no  value  as  an  end,  but  means ; 
An  end  deplorable  !  a  means  divine  ! 
When  'tis  our  all,  'tis  nothing  ;  worse  than  nought  ; 
A  nest  of  pains  ;  when  held  as  nothing,  much  ; 
Like  some  fair  hum'rists,  life  is  most  enjoy'd, 
When  courted  least ;  most  worth,  when  disesteem'd  ; 
Then  'tis  the  seat  of  comfort,  rich  in  peace  ; 
In  prospect,  richer  far ;  important !  awful ! 
Not  to  be  mention'd  but  with  shouts  of  praise ! 
ITot  to  be  thought  on,  but  with  tides  of  joy! 
The  mighty  basis  of  eternal  bliss  ! 

Where  now  the  barren  rock  ?  the  painted  shrew  ? 
Where  now,  Lorenzo  !  life's  eternal  round  ? 
Have  I  not  made  my  triple  promise  good  ? 
Tain  is  the  world  ;  but  only  to  the  vain. 
To  what  compare  we  then  this  varying  scene. 
Whose  worth  ambiguous  rises,  and  declines  ? 
Waxes,  and  wanes  ?  (in  all  propitious.  Night, 
Assist  me  here)  compare  it  to  the  moon  ; 
Dark  in  herself,  and  indigent ;  but  rich 
In  borrow'd  lustre  from  a  higher  sphere  : 


82  THE     COMPLAINT. 

When  gross  guilt  interposes,  laboring  earth, 
O'ershadow'd,  mourns  a  deep  eclipse  of  joy ; 
Her  joys,  at  brightest,  pallid,  to  that  font 
Of  full  effulgent  glory,  whence  they  flow. 

Nor  is  that  glory  distant :  oh  Lorenzo ! 
A  good  man,  and  an  angel !     These  between 
How  thin  the  barrier  ?  what  divides  their  fate  ? 
Perhaps  a  moment ;  or  perhaps  a  year  ; 
Or,  if  an  age,  it  is  a  moment  still ; 
A  moment,  or  eternity  's  forgot. 
Then  be,  what  once  they  were,  who  now  are  gods  : 
Be  what  Philander  was,  and  claim  the  skies. 
Starts  timid  Nature  at  the  gloomy  pass  ? 
The  soft  transition  call  it ;  and  be  cheer'd : 
Such  it  is  often,  and  why  not  to  thee  ? 
To  hope  the  best  is  pious,  brave,  and  wise ; 
And  may  itself  procure,  what  it  presumes. 
Life  is  much  flatter'd.  Death  is  much  traduc'd  ; 
Compare  the  rivals,  and  the  kinder  crown. 
"  Strange  competition  !" — True,  Lorenzo  !  strange ! 
So  little  life  can  cast  into  the  scale. 

Life  makes  the  soul  dependent  on  the  dust ; 


N  I  G  H  T     1 1  I  .  83 


Death  gives  her  wings  to  mount  above  the  spheres. 
Through  chinks,  styl'd  organs,  dim  life  peeps  at  hglu 
Death  bursts  th'  involving  cloud,  and  all  is  day ; 
All  eye,  all  ear,  the  disembodied  power. 
Death  has  feign'd  evils,  Nature  shall  not  feel ; 
Life,  ills  substantial,  wisdom  cannot  shun. 
Is  not  the  mighty  mind,  that  son  of  Heaven ! 
By  tyrant  life  dethron'd,  imprison'd,  pain'd  ? 
By  death  enlarg'd,  ennobled,  deified  ? 
Death  but  intombs  the  body ;  life  the  soul. 

"  Is  death  then  guiltless  ?     How  he  marks  his  way 
With  dreadful  waste  of  what  deserves  to  shine ! 
Art,  genius,  fortune,  elevated  power ! 
With  various  lustres  these  light  up  the  world, 
Which  death  puts  out,  and  darkens  human  race." 
I  grant,  Lorenzo  !  this  indictment  just : 
The  sage,  peer,  potentate,  king,  conqueror ! 
Death  humbles  these  ;  more  barb'rous  life,  the  man. 
Life  is  the  triumph  of  our  mould'ring  clay  ; 
Death  of  the  spirit  infinite !  divine ! 
Death  has  no  dread,  but  what  frail  life  imparts ; 
Nor  life  true  joy,  but  what  kind  death  improves. 


84  THE     COMPLAINT. 

No  bliss  has  life  to  boast,  till  death  can  give 
Far  greater  ;  life 's  a  debtor  to  the  grave, 
Dark  lattice  !  letting  in  eternal  day. 

Lorenzo  !  blush  at  fondness  for  a  life 
Which  sends  celestial  souls  on  errands  vile, 
To  cater  for  the  sense  ;  and  serve  at  boards. 
Where  ev'ry  ranger  of  the  wilds,  perhaps 
Each  reptile,  justly  claims  our  upper  hand. 
Luxurious  feast  !  a  soul,  a  soul  immortal. 
In  all  the  dainties  of  a  brute  bemir'd  ! 
Lorenzo  !  blush  at  terror  for  a  death. 
Which  gives  thee  to  repose  in  festive  bowers. 
Where  nectars  sparkle,  angels  minister. 
And  more  than  angels  share,  and  raise,  and  crown, 
And  eternize,  the  birth,  bloom,  bursts  of  bliss. 
What  need  I  more  ?  0  death,  the  palm  is  thine. 

Then  welcome,  death  !  thy  dreaded  harbingers. 
Age,  and  disease  ;  disease,  though  long  my  guest ; 
That  plucks  my  nerves,  those  tender  strings  of  life ; 
Which,  pluck'd  a  little  more,  will  toll  the  bell. 
That  calls  my  few  friends  to  my  funeral ; 
Where  feeble  nature  drops,  perhaps,  a  tear, 


NIGHTIII.  85 


While  reason  and  religion,  better  taught, 
Congratulate  the  dead,  and  crown  his  tomb 
With  wreath  triumphant.     Death  is  victory  ; 
It  binds  in  chains  the  rao^inor  ills  of  life : 
Lust  and  ambition,  wrath  and  avarice, 
Dragg'd  at  his  chariot -wheel,  applaud  his  powers. 
That  ills  corrosive,  cares  importunate, 
Are  not  immortal  too,  O  death!  is  thine. 
Our  day  of  dissolution  ! — name  it  right ; 
'Tis  our  great  pay-day ;  'tis  our  harvest,  rich 
And  ripe  :  what  tho'  the  sickle,  sometimes  keen, 
Just  scars  us,  as  we  reap  the  golden  grain  ? 
More  than  thy  balm,  0  Gilead !  heals  the  wound. 
Birth's  feeble  cry,  and  death's  deep  dismal  groan, 
Are  slender  tributes  low-tax'd  Nature  pays 
For  mighty  gain  :  the  gain  of  each,  a  life  ! 
But  0  !  the  last  the  former  so  transcends. 
Life  dies,  compar'd ;  life  lives  beyond  the  grave. 
And  feel  I,  Death  !  no  joy  from  thought  of  thee  ? 
Death,  the  great  counsellor,  who  man  inspires 
With  ev'ry  nobler  thought,  and  fairer  deed  ! 
Death,  the  deliverer,  who  rescues  man ! 


86  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Death,  the  rewarder,  who  the  rescu'd  crowns ! 

Death,  that  absolves  my  birth ;  a  curse  without  it ! 

Rich  death,  that  realizes  all  my  cares. 

Toils,  virtues,  hopes  !  without  it,  a  chimera  ! 

Death,  of  all  pain  the  period,  not  of  joy  : 

Joy's  source,  and  subject,  still  subsist  unhurt  ; 

One,  in  my  soul ;  and  one,  in  her  great  sire  ; 

Tho'  the  four  winds  were  warring  for  my  dust. 

Yes,  and  from  winds,  and  waves,  and  central  night, 

Tho'  prison'd  there,  my  dust  too  I  reclaim, 

(To  dust  when  drop  proud  Nature's  proudest  spheres) 

And  live  entire.     Death  is  the  crown  of  hfe : 

Was  death  denied,  poor  man  would  hve  in  vain  ; 

Was  death  deny'd,  to  live  would  not  be  life ; 

Was  death  denied,  ev'n  fools  would  wish  to  die. 

Death  wounds  to  cure  :  we  fall ;  we  rise ;  we  reign ! 

Spring  from  our  fetters ;  fasten  in  the  skies ; 

Where  blooming  Eden  withers  in  our  sight : 

Death  gives  us  more  than  was  in  Eden  lost. 

This  king  of  terrors  is  the  prince  of  peace. 

When  shall  I  die  to  vanity,  pain,  death  ? 

When  shall  I  die, — when  shall  I  hve  forever  ? 


NIGHT  IV. 

THE   CHRISTIAN   TRIUMPH  : 

CONTAINING    OUR    ONLY    CURE    FOR    THE    FEAR    OF    DEATH  J 

AND   PROPER    SENTIMENTS    OF    HEART    ON    THAT 

INESTIMABLE    OCCASION. 

TO   THE    HONORABLE    MR.  TORKE. 

A  MUCH-INDEBTED  musc,  0  Yorke !  intrudes. 
Amid  the  smiles  of  fortune,  and  of  youth, 
Thine  ear  is  patient  of  a  serious  song. 
How  deep  implanted  in  the  breast  of  man 
The  dread  of  Death  ?     I  sing  its  sov'reign  cure. 

Why  start  at  Death  ?    Where  is  he  ?    Death  arriv'dj 
Is  past ;  not  come,  or  gone,  he  's  never  here, 
Ere  hope,  sensation  fails ;  black-boding  man 
Receives,  not  suffers  death's  tremendous  blow. 
The  knell,  the  shroud,  the  mattock,  and  the  grave  ; 


88  THE     COMPLAINT. 


^V'T    The  deep  damp  vault,  the  darkness,  and  the  worm 
These  are  the  bugbears  of  a  winter's  eve, 
The  terrors  of  the  living,  not  the  dead. 
Imagination's  fool,  and  error's  wretch, 
Man  makes  a  death,  which  Nature  never  made ; 
Then  on  the  point  of  his  own  fancy  falls  ; 
And  feels  a  thousand  deaths,  in  fearing  one. 

But  was  Death  frightful,  what  has  Age  to  fear  ? 
If  prudent.  Age  should  meet  the  friendly  foe, 
And  shelter  in  his  hospitable  gloom. 
I  scarce  can  meet  a  monument,  but  holds 
My  younger  ;  every  date  cries — "  Come  away." 
And  what  recalls  me  ?  look  the  world  around, 
And  tell  me  what  ?     The  Avisest  cannot  tell. 
Shoidd  any  born  of  woman  give  his  thought 
Full  range,  on  just  dislike's  unbounded  field  ; 
Of  things,  the  vanity  ;  of  men,  the  flaws ; 
Flaws  in  the  best ;  the  many,  flaw  all  o'er, 
As  leopards  spotted,  or,  as  Ethiops,  dark ; 
Vivacious  ill ;  good  dying  immature  ; 
(How  immature,  Narcissa's  marble  tells) 
And  at  its  death  bequeathing  endless  pain ; 


N  I  G  H  T     I  V  .  89 


His  heart,  tho'  bold,  would  sicken  at  the  sight, 
And  spend  itself  in  sighs  for  future  scenes. 

But  grant  to  life  (and  just  it  is  to  grant 
To  lucky  life)  some  perquisites  of  joy  ; 
A  time  there  is,  when,  like  a  thrice-told  tale. 
And  that  of  no  great  moment,  or  delight, 
Long-rifled,  life  of  sweet  can  yield  no  more, 
But  from  our  comment  on  the  comedy. 
Pleasing  reflections  on  parts  well  sustain'd, 
Or  purpos'd  emendations  where  we  fail'd. 
Or  hopes  of  plaudits  from  our  candid  judge. 
When,  on  their  exit,  souls  are  bid  unrobe, 
Toss  fortune  back  her  tinsel,  and  her  plume. 
And  drop  this  mask  of  flesh  behind  the  scene. 

With  me  that  time  is  come ;  my  world  is  dead ; 
A  new  world  rises,  and  new  manners  reign : 
Foreign  comedians,  a  spruce  band  !  arrive, 
To  push  me  from  the  scene,  or  hiss  me  there. 
What  a  pert  race  starts  up  !  the  strangers  gaze, 
And  I  at  them  ;  my  neighbor  is  unknown  ; 
Kor  that  the  worst :  ah  me  !  the  dire  eff"ect 
Of  loit'ring  here,  of  death  defrauded  long ; 


90  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Of  old  SO  gracious  (and  let  that  suffice), 
My  very  master  knows  me  not. 

Shall  I  dare  say,  peculiar  is  the  fate  ? 
I've  been  so  long  reraember'd,  I'm  forgot. 
An  object  ever  pressing  dims  the  sight. 
And  hides  behind  its  ardor  to  be  seen. 
When  in  his  courtiers'  ears  I  pour  my  plaint, 
They  drink  it  as  the  nectar  of  the  great ; 
And  squeze  my  hand,  and  beg  me  come  to-morrow  ! 
Refusal !  canst  thou  wear  a  smoother  form  ? 

Indulge  me,  nor  conceive  I  drop  my  theme : 
Who  cheapens  life,  abates  the  fear  of  death  : 
Twice-told  the  period  spent  on  stubborn  Troy, 
Court-favor,  yet  untaken,  I  besiege ; 
Ambition's  ill-judg'd  effort  to  be  rich. 
Alas  !  ambition  makes  my  little,  less  ; 
Embitt'ring  the  possess'd.     Why  wish  for  more  ? 
Wisliing,  of  all  employments,  is  the  worst ; 
Philosophy's  reverse  !   and  health's  decay  ! 
Was  I  as  plump,  as  stall'd  theology. 
Wishing  would  waste  me  to  this  shade  again. 
Was  I  as  wealthy  as  a  South-Sea  dream. 


NIGHT     IV.  91 

Wishing  is  an  expedient  to  be  poor. 
Wishing,  that  constant  hectic  of  a  fool ; 
Caught  at  a  coui't ;  purg'd   off  by  purer  air, 
And  simpler  diet ;  gifts  of  rural  life  ! 

Blest  be  that  Hand  divine,  which  gently  laid 
My  heart  at  rest,  beneath  this  humble  shed. 
The  world 's  a  stately  bark,  on  dang'rous  seas, 
With  pleasure  seen,  but  boarded  at  our  peril : 
Here,  on  a  single  plank,  thrown  safe  ashore, 
I  hear  the  tumult  of  the  distant  throng. 
As  that  of  seas  remote,  or  dying  storms ; 
And  meditate  on  scenes  more  silent  still  ; 
Pursue  my  theme,  and  fight  the  fear  of  death. 
Here,  like  a  shepherd  gazing  from  his  hut. 
Touching  his  reed,  or  leaning  on  his  staff. 
Eager  ambition's  fiery  chase  I  see  ; 
I  see  the  circling  hunt,  of  noisy  men, 
Burst  law's  inclosure,  leap  the  mounds  of  right, 
Pursuing,  and  pursued,  each  other's  prey  ; 
As  wolves,  for  rapine ;  as  the  fox,  for  wiles ; 
Till  Death,  that  mighty  hunter,  earths  them  all. 

Why  all  this  toil  for  triumphs  of  an  hour  ? 


92  THE     COMPLAINT. 

What,  tho'  we  wade  in  wealth,  or  soar  in  fame  ? 
Earth's  highest  station  ends  in,  "  Here  he  lies  ;" 
And  "  Dust  to  dust"  concludes  her  noblest  song. 
If  this  song  lives,  posterity  shall  know 
One,  tho'  in  Britain  born,  with  courtiers  bred. 
Who  thought  e'en  gold  might  come  a  day  too  late ; 
Nor  on  his  subtle  death-bed  plann'd  his  scheme 
For  future  vacancies  in  church  or  state  ; 

Some  avocation  deeming  it to  die  ; 

Unbit  by  rage  canine  of  dying  rich ; 

Guilt's  blunder!  and  the  loudest  laugh  of  Hell. 

0  my  coevals  !  remnants  of  yourselves  ! 
Poor  human  ruins,  tott'ring  o'er  the  grave  ! 
Shall  we,  shall  aged  men,  like  aged  trees. 
Strike  deeper  their  vile  root,  and  closer  cling. 
Still  more  enamor'd  of  this  wretched  soil  ? 
Shall  our  pale,  wither'd  hands  be  still  stretch'd  out, 
Trembling,  at  once,  with  eagerness  and  age  ? 
With  av'rice,  and  convulsions  grasping  hard  ? 
Grasping  at  air  !  for  what  has  earth  beside  ? 
Man  wants  but  little  ;  nor  that  little,  long  ; 
How  soon  must  he  resign  his  very  dust ; 


NIGHTIV.  93 


Which  frugal  Nature  lent  him  for  an  hour  ! 
Years  unexperienc'd  rush  on  num'rous  ills  ; 
And  soon  as  man,  expert  from  time,  has  found 
The  key  of  life,  it  opes  the  gates  of  death. 

When  in  this  vale  of  years  I  backward  look. 
And  miss  such  numbers,  numbers  too  of  such, 
Firmer  in  health,  and  greener  in  their  age, 
And  stricter  on  their  guard,  and  fitter  far 
To  play  life's  subtle  game,  I  scarce  believe 
I  still  survive.     And  am  I  fond  of  life. 
Who  scarce  can  think  it  possible,  I  live  ? 
Alive  by  miracle  !  or,  what  is  next. 
Alive  by  Mead  !  if  I  am  still  aUve, 
Who  long  have  buried  what  gives  life  to  Uve, 
Firmness  of  nerve,  and  energy  of  thought. 
Life's  lee  is  not  more  shallow,  than  impure. 
And  vapid  ;  sense  and  reason  show  the  door, 
Call  for  my  bier,  and  point  me  to  the  dust. 

0  thou  great  Arbiter  of  life  and  death ! 
Nature's  immortal,  immaterial  sun  ! 
Whose  all-prohfic  beam  late  call'd  me  forth 
From  darkness,  teeming  darkness,  where  I  lay 


I 

94  THECOMPLAINT 


The  worm's  inferior,  and,  in  rank,  beneath 
The  dust  I  tread  on,  high  to  bear  my  brow, 
To  diink  the  spirit  of  the  golden  day. 
And  triumph  in  existence ;  and  couldst  know 
No  motive,  but  my  bhss  ;  and  hast  ordain'd 
A  rise  in  blessing  !  with  the  patriarch's  joy, 
Thy  call  I  follow  to  the  land  unknown ; 
I  trust  in  thee,  and  know  in  whom  I  trust ; 
Or  life,  or  death,  is  equal ;  neither  weighs  ; 
All  weight  in  this — 0  let  me  live  to  Thee ! 

Though  nature's  terrors  thus  may  be  represt. 
Still  frowns   grim    Death  ;    Guilt    points    the  tyrant's 

spear . 
And  whence  all  human  guilt  ?  from  Death  forgot. 
Ah  me  !  too  long  I  set  at  nought  the  swarm 
Of  friendly  warnings,  which  around  me  flew ; 
And  smil'd,  unsmitten  :  small  my  cause  to  smile ! 
Death's  admonitons,  like  shafts  upwards  shot. 
More  dreadful  by  delay,  the  longer  ere 
They  strike  our  hearts,  the  deeper  is  their  wound. 
0  think  how  deep,  Lorenzo  !  here  it  stings : 
Who  can  appease  its  anguish  ?  how  it  burns ! 


NIGHT     IV.  95 


What  hand  the  barb'd,  envenom'd  thought  can  draw  ? 
What  healing  hand  can  pour  the  balm  of  peace  ? 
And  turn  my  sight  undaunted  on  the  tomb  ? 

With  joy, — with  grief,  that  healing  hand  I  see  ; 
Ah  !  too  conspicuous  !  it  is  fix'd  on  high. 
On  high  ? — What  means  my  phrensy  ?    I  blaspheme  ; 
Alas !  how  low  !  how  far  beneath  the  skies  ? 
The  skies  it  form'd ;  and  now  it  bleeds  for  me — 
But  bleeds  the  balm  I  want — yet  still  it  bleeds ; 
Draw  the  dire  steel — Ah  no  ! — the  dreadful  blessing 
What  heart  or  can  sustain,  or  dares  forego  ? 
There  hangs  all  human  hope  :  that  nail  supports 
Our  falling  universe :  That  gone,  we  drop ; 
Horror  receives  us,  and  the  dismal  wish 
Creation  had  been  smother' d  in  her  birth — 
Darkness  his  curtain,  and  his  bed  the  dust ; 
When  stars  and  sun  are  dust  beneath  his  throne ! 
in  heav'n  itself  can  such  indulgence  dwell  ? 
0  what  a  groan  was  there  ?  a  groan  not  his. 
He  seiz'd  our  dreadful  right ;  the  load  sustain'd  ; 
And  heav'd  the  mountain  from  a  guilty  world. 
A  thousand  worlds,  so  bought,  were  bought  too  dear. 


96  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Sensations  new  in  angels'  bosoms  rise  : 
Suspend  their  song  ;  and  make  a  pause  in  bliss. 

0  for  their  song  to  reach  my  lofty  theme ! 
Inspire  me,  Night !  with  all  thy  tuneful  spheres  inspire 
Whilst  I  with  seraphs,  share  seraphic  themes. 
And  show  to  men,  the  dignity  of  man ; 
Lest  I  blaspheme  my  subject  with  my  song. 
Shall  pagan  pages  glow  celestial  flame, 
And  Christian  languish  ?  on  our  hearts,  not  heads. 
Falls  the  foul  infamy  :  my  heart !  awake. 
What  can  awake  thee,  unawak'd  by  this, 
"Expended  Deity  on  human  weal  ?" 
Feel  the  great  truths,  which  burst  the  tenfold  night 
Of  heathen  error,  with  a  golden  flood 
Of  endless  day  :  to  feel,  is  to  be  fir'd  ; 
And  to  believe,  Lorenzo !  is  to  feel. 

Thou  most  indulgent,  most  tremendous  Power ! 
Still  more  tremendous,  for  thy  wond'rous  love  ! 
That  arms,  with  awe  more  awful,  thy  commands  ; 
And  foul  ti-ansgression  dips  in  sevenfold  night ; 
How  our  hearts  tremble  at  thy  love  immense ! 
In  love  immense,  inviolably  just ! 


NIGHT     IV.  97 


Thou,  rather  than  thy  justice  should  be  stain'd 
Didst  stain  the  cross ;  and,  work  of  wonders,  far 
The  greatest,  that  thy  dearest  far  might  bleed. 

Bold  thought  !  shall  I  dare  speak  it  ?  or  repress  ? 
Should  man  more  execrate,  or  boast,  the  guilt 
Which  rous'd  such  vengeance?    which  such  love  in- 

flam'd? 
O'er  guilt  (how  mountainous  !)  with  outstretch'd  arms. 
Stern  justice,  and  soft-smiling  love,  embrace. 
Supporting,  in  full  majesty,  thy  throne. 
When  seem'd  its  majesty  to  need  support. 
Or  that,  or  man,  inevitably  lost. 
What,  but  the  fathomless  of  thought  divine. 
Could  labor  such  expedient  from  despair. 
And  rescue  both  ?  both  rescue !  both  exalt ! 
0  how  are  both  exalted  by  the  deed  ! 
The  wond'rous  deed  !  or  shall  I  call  it  more  ? 
A  wonder  in  omnipotence  itself! 
A  mystery,  no  less  to  gods  than  men  ! 

Not,  thus,  our  infidels  th'  Eternal  draw, 
A  God  all  o'er,  consummate,  absolute, 
Full-orb'd,  in  his  whole  round  of  rays  complete ; 


98  THE     COMPLAINT. 


They  set  at  odds  Heav'n's  jarring  attributes ; 
And,  with  one  excellence,  another  wound  ; 
Maim  Heav'n's  perfection,  break  its  equal  beams, 
Bid  Mercy  triumph  over — God  himself, 
Undeified  by  their  opprobrious  praise  : 
A  God  all  mercy,  is  a  God  unjust. 

Ye  brainless  wits  !  ye  baptiz'd  infidels  ! 
Ye  worse  for  mending !  wash'd  to  fouler  stains  ! 
The  ransom  was  paid  down  ;  the  fund  of  Heaven, 
Heav'n's  inexhaustible,  exhausted  fund. 
Amazing,  and  amaz'd,  pour'd  forth  the  price, 
All  price  beyond  :  though  curious  to  compute, 
Archangels  fail'd  to  cast  the  mighty  sum : 
Its  value  vast,  ungrasp'd  by  minds  create, 
Forever  hides,  and  glows  in,  the  Supreme. 

And  was  the  ransom  paid  ?     It  was  :  and  paid 
(What  can  exalt  the  bounty  more  ?)  for  you. 
The  sun  beheld  it — no,  the  shocking  scene 
Drove  back  his  chariot :  midnight  veil'd  his  face  ; 
Not  such  as  this ;  not  such  as  Nature  makes ; 
A  midnight  Nature  shudder'd  to  behold  ; 
A  midnight  new !  a  dread  eclipse  (without 


N  I  G  H  T     I  V  ,  99 


Opposing  spheres)  from  her  Creator's  frown ! 
Sun  !  didst  thou  fly  thy  Maker's  pain  ?  or  start 
At  that  enormous  load  of  human  guilt, 
Which  bow'd  his  blessed  head  ;  o'erwhelm'd  his  cross  ; 
Made  groan  the  centre ;  burst  earth's  marble  womb, 
With  pangs,  strange  pangs  !  deliver'd  of  her  dead  ? 
Hell  howl'd ;  and  Heav'n  that  hour  let  fall  a  tear; 
Heav'n  wept,  that  men  might  smile  !  Heav'n  bled,  that 
man 

Might  never  die  ! 

And  is  devotion  virtue  ?     'Tis  compell'd : 
What  heart  of  stone,  but  glows  at  thoughts  like  these  ? 
Such  contemplations  mount  us  ;  and  should  mount 
The  mind  still  higher ;  nor  ever  glance  on  man, 
Unraptur'd,  uninflam'd. — Where  roll  my  thoughts 
To  rest  from  wonders  ?  other  wonders  rise ; 
And  strike  where'er  they  roll :  my  soul  is  caught : 
Heav'n's  sov'reign  blessings,  clust'ring  from  the  cross, 
Rush  on  her  in  a  throng,  and  close  her  round. 
The  pris'ner  of  amaze  ! — In  His  blest  life, 
I  see  the  path,  and  in  His  death  the  price. 
And  in  His  great  ascent,  the  proof  supreme 


100  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Of  immortality. — And  did  He  rise  ? 
Hear,  O  ye  nations  !  hear  it,  0  ye  dead  ! 
He  rose  !  He  rose !  He  burst  the  bars  of  death. 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates ! 
And  give  the  King  of  Glory  to  come  in  ! 
Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?     He  who  left 
His  Throne  of  Glory,  for  the  pang  of  death  : 
Lift  up  your  heads,  ye  everlasting  gates ! 
And  give  the  King  of  Glory  to  come  in. 
Who  is  the  King  of  Glory  ?     He  who  slew 
The  rav'nous  foe,  that  gorg'd  all  human  race ! 
The  King  of  Glory,  He,  whose  glory  till'd 
Heav'n  with  amazement  at  his  love  to  man ; 
And  with  divine  complacency  beheld 
Pow'rs  most  illumin'd,  wilder'd  in  the  theme. 

The  theme,  the  joy,  how  then  shall  man  sustain  ? 
Oh  the  burst  gates  !  crush'd  sting  !  demolish'd  throne  ! 
Last  gasp !    of  vanquish'd  Death.     Shout  earth  and 

heaven ! 
This  sum  of  good  to  man  :  whose  nature,  then, 
Took  wing,  and  mounted  with  him  from  the  tomb  ! 
Then,  then,  I  rose;  then  first  humanity 


NIGHT     I^'.  rot 


Triumphant  pass'd  the  ciystal  ports  of  light, 
(Stupendous  guest !)  and  seiz'd  eternal  youth, 
Seiz'd  in  our  name.     E'er  since  'tis  blasphemous 
To  call  man  mortal.     Man's  mortality 
Was,  then,  transferr'd  to  death  ;  and  heav'n's  duration 
"[Inalienably  seal'd  to  this  frail  frame. 
This  child  of  dust. — Man,  all  immortal,  hail ! 
Hail,  Heav'n  !  all-lavish  of  strange  gifts  to  man  ! 
Thine  all  the  glory ;  man's  the  boundless  bliss. 
Where  am  I  rapt  by  this  triumphant  theme, 
On  Chiistian  joy's^exulting  wing,  above 
Th'  Aonian  mount  ? — Alas,  small  cause  for  joy  ! 
What  if  to  pain,  immortal  ?     If  extent 
Of  being,  to  preclude  a  close  of  woe  ? 
Where,  then,  my  boast  of  immortality  ?  ^ 

I  boast  it  still,  though  cover'd  o'er  with  guilt : 
For  guilt,  not  innocence.  His  life  He  pour'd ; 
'T  is  guilt  alone  can  justify  His  death  ; 
Nor  that,  unless  His  death  can  justify 
Relenting  guilt  in  Heaven's  indulgent  sight. 
If,  sick  of  folly,  I  relent ;  He  writes 
My  name  in  Heav'n,  with  that  inverted  spear 


1^2  TKEdOMPLAINT. 

(A  spear  deep  dipt  in  blood  !)  which  pierc'd  His  side. 
And  open'd  there  a  font  for  all  mankind 
Who  strive,  who  combat  crimes,  to  drink,  and  live: 
This,  only  this,  subdues  the  fear  of  death. 

And  what  is  this  ? — Survey  the  wond'rous  cure  ; 
And  at  each  step,  let  higher  wonder  rise ! 
**  Pardon  for  infinite  offence  !  and  pardon 
Through  means  that  speak  its  value  infinite  ! 
A  pardon  bought  with  blood  !  with  blood  divine ! 
With  blood  divine  of  Him  I  made  my  foe ! 
Persisted  to  provoke  !  though  woo'd,  and  aw'd. 
Blest,  and  chastis'd,  a  flagrant  rebel  still ! 
A  rebel  'midst  the  thunders  of  his  throne  ! 
Nor  I  alone  !  a  rebel  universe  ! 
My  species  up  in  arms  !  not  one  exempt ! 
Yet  for  the  foulest  of  the  foul.  He  dies. 
Most  joy'd  for  the  redeem'd  from  deepest  guilt ! 
As  if  our  race  was  held  of  highest  rank  ; 
And  Godhead  dearer,  as  more  kind  to  man !" 

Bound,  ev'ry  heart !  and,  ev'ry  bosom,  burn  ! 
Oh  what  a  scale  of  miracles  is  here  ! 
Its  lowest  round,  high-planted  on  the  skies ; 


NIGHT     IV.  lOJ 


Its  tow'ring  summit  lost  beyond  the  thought 
Of  man  or  angel !     Oh  that  I  could  climb 
The  wonderful  ascent,  with  equal  praise ! 
Praise  !  flow  forever,  (if  astonishment 
Will  give  thee  leave)  my  praise  !  forever  flow ; 
Praise  ardent,  cordial,  constant,  to  high  heav'n 
More  fragrant  than  Arabia  sacrific'd. 
And  all  her  spicy  mountains  in  a  flame. 

So  dear,  so  due  to  heav'n,  shall  praise  descend 
With  her  soft  plume,  (from  plausive  angel's  wing 
Fii'st  pluck'd  by  man)  to  tickle  mortal  ears. 
Thus  diving  in  the  pockets  of  the  great  ? 
Is  praise  the  perquisite  of  ev'ry  paw. 
Though  black  as  Hell,  that  grapples  well  for  gold  ? 
Oh  love  of  gold  !  thou  meanest  of  amours  ! 
Shall  praise  her  odors  waste  on  Virtue's  dead. 
Embalm  the  base,  perfume  the  stench  of  guilt. 
Earn  dirty  bread  by  washmg  Ethiops  fair, 
Removing  filth,  or  sinking  it  from  sight, 
A  scavenger  in  scenes  where  vacant  posts, 
Like  gibbets  yet  untenanted,  expect 
Their  future  ornaments  ?  from  courts  and  thrones, 


104  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Return,  apostate  praise !     Thou  vagabond  ! 
Thou  prostitute !  to  thy  first  Love  return, 
Thy  first,  thy  greatest,  once  unrivall'd  theme. 

There  How  redundant ;  hke  Meander  flow, 
Back  to  thy  fountain ;  to  that  Parent  Power, 
Who  gives  the  tongue  to  sound,  the  thought  to  soar, 
The  soul  to  be.     Men  homage  pay  to  men. 
Thoughtless  beneath  whose  dreadful  eye  they  bow 
In  mutual  awe  profound,  of  clay  to  clay, 
Of  guilt  to  guilt,  and  turn  their  backs  on  thee, 
Great  Sire  !  whom  thrones  celestial  ceaseless  sing ; 
To  prostrate  angels,  an  amazing  scene  ! 
O  the  presumption  of  man's  awe  for  man ! 
Man's  Author  !  End !  Restorer !  Law  !  and  Judge  ! 
Thine,  all ;  day  thine,  and  thine  this  gloom  of  night, 
With  all  her  wealth,  with  all  her  radiant  worlds : 
What,  night  eternal,  but  a  frown  from  thee  ? 
What,  Heav'n's  meridian  glory,  but  thy  smile  ? 
And  shall  not  praise  be  thine  ?  not  human  praise  ? 
While  Heav'n's  high  host  on  hallelujahs  live  ? 

0  may  I  breathe  no  longer,  than  I  breathe 
My  soul  in  praise  to  him  who  gave  my  soul, 


NIGHT     IV.  105 


And  all  her  infinite  of  prospect  fah% 

Cut  thro'  the  shades  of  hell,  great  Love  !  by  thee  ! 

Oh  most  adorable  !  most  imador'd  ! 

Where  shall  that  praise  begin,  which  ne'er  should  end  ? 

Where'er  I  turn,  what  claim  on  all  applause ! 

How  is  night's  sable  mantle  labor'd  o'er. 

How  richly  wrought,  with  attributes  divine  ! 

What  wisdom  shines  !  what  love  !  this  midnight  pomp, 

This  gorgeous  arch,  with  golden  worlds  inlay 'd ! 

Built  with  divine  ambition  !  nought  to  thee ; 

For  others  this  profusion  :  thou,  apart. 

Above,  beyond  !  Oh  tell  me,  mighty  mind ! 

Where  art  thou  ?  shall  I  dive  into  the  deep  ? 

Call  to  the  sun,  or  ask  the  roaring  winds. 

For  their  Creator  ?  shall  I  question  loud 

The  thunder,  if  in  that  th'  Almighty  dwells  ? 

Or  holds  He  furious  storms  in  sti-aighten'd  reins. 

And  bids  fierce  whirlwinds  wheel  his  rapid  car  ? 

What  mean  these  questions  ? — Trembling  I  retract : 
My  prostrate  soul  adores  the  present  God  : 
Praise  I  a  distant  Deity  ?  he  tunes 
My  voice  (if  tun'd) ;  the  nerve  that  writes  sustains  : 


106  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Wrapp'd  in  his  being,  I  resound  his  praise  : 
But  tho'  past  all  diffus'd,  without  a  shore, 
His  essence,  local  is  his  throne  (as  meet,) 
To  gather  the  dispers'd  (as  standards  call 
The  listed  from  afar)  ;  to  fix  a  point, 
A  central  point,  collective  of  his  sons, 
Since  finite  ev'ry  nature  but  his  own. 

The  nameless  He,  whose  nod  is  nature's  birth ; 
And  nature's  shield,  the  shadow  of  his  hand ; 
Her  dissolution,  his  suspended  smile ! 
The  great  First-last !  pavilion'd  high  he  sits 
In  darkness,  from  excessive  splendor,  borne. 
By  gods  unseen,  unless  through  lustre  lost. 
His  glory,  to  created  glory,  bright, 
As  that  to  central  horrors ;  he  looks  down 
On  all  that  soars ;  and  spans  immensity. 

Though  night  unnumber'd  worlds  unfolds  to  view, 
Boundless  creation  !  what  art  thou  ?  a  beam, 
A  mere  effluvium  of  his  Majesty  : 
And  shall  an  atom  of  this  atom-world 
Mutter,  in  dust  and  sin,  the  theme  of  Pleaven  ? 
Down  to  the  centre  should  I  send  my  thought 


NIGHT     IV.  107 


Through  beds  of  glitt'ring  ore,  and  glowing  gems, 
Their  beggar'd  blaze  wants  lustre  for  my  lay ; 
Goes  out  in  darkness.     If,  on  tow'ring  wing, 
I  send  it  throusch  the  boundless  vault  of  stars  ; 
(The  stars,  tho'  rich,  what  dross  their  gold  to  thee. 
Great !  good !  wise  !  wonderful !  eternal  King  !) 
If  to  those  conscious  stars  thy  throne  around. 
Praise  ever-pouring,  and  imbibing  bhss  ; 
And  ask  their  strain ;  they  want  it,  more  they  want. 
Poor  their  abundance,  humble  their  sublime, 
Languid  their  energy,  their  ardor  cold. 
Indebted  still,  their  highest  rapture  burns 
Short  of  its  mark,  defective,  tho'  divine. 

Still  more — this  theme  is  man's,  and  man's  alone ; 
Their  vast  appointments  reach  it  not :  they  see 
On  earth  a  bounty  not  indulg'd  on  high ; 
And  downward  look  for  heav'n's  superior  praise ! 
First-born  of  ether  !  high  in  fields  of  light ! 
View  man,  to  see  the  glory  of  your  God ! 
Could  angels  envy,  they  had  envy'd  here ; 
And  some  did  envy ;  and  the  rest,  tho'  gods. 
Yet  still  gods  unredeemed  (there  triumphs  man. 


i08  THE     COMPLAINT 


Tempted  to  weigh  the  dust  against  the  skies) 
They  less  would  feel,  tho'  more  adorn,  my  theme. 
They  sung  creation  (for  in  that  they  shar'd) 
How  rose  in  melody,  the  child  of  love  : 
Creation's  great  superior,  man  !  is  thine ; 
Thine  is  redemption  ;  they  just  gave  the  key : 
'Tis  thine  to  raise,  and  eternize,  the  song ; 
Tho'  human,  yet  divine ;  for  should  not  this 
Raise  man  o'er  man,  and  kindle  seraphs  here  ? 
Redemption  !  'twas  creation  more  sublime  ; 
Redemption  !  'twas  the  labor  of  the  skies  ; 
Far  more  than  labor — it  was  death  in  Heaven. 
A  truth  so  strange  !  'twere  bold  to  think  it  true ; 
If  not  far  bolder  still,  to  disbelieve. 

Here  pause,  and  ponder :  was  there  death  in  Heav'n  ? 
What  then  on  earth  ?  on  earth,  which  struck  the  blow  ? 
Who  struck  it  ?  who  ! — is  man  enlarg'd, 
Seen  thro'  this  medium  ?  how  the  pigmy  tow'rs ! 
How  counterpois'd  his  origin  from  dust ! 
How  counterpois'd,  to  dust  his  sad  return ! 
How  voided  his  vast  distance  from  the  skies  ! 
How  near  he  presses  on  the  seraph's  wing ! 


NIGHT     IV.  109 


Which  is  the  seraph  ?  which  the  born  of  clay  ? 
How  this  demonstrates,  thro'  the  thickest  cloud 
Of  guilt,  and  clay  condens'd,  the  son  of  Heaven  ! 
The  double  son ;  the  made,  and  the  re-made ! 
And  shall  Heav'n's  double  property  be  lost  ? 
Man's  double  madness  only  can  destroy. 
To  man  the  bleeding  cross  has  promis'd  all ; 
The  bleeding  cross  has  sworn  eternal  grace ; 
Who  gave  his  life,  what  grace  shall  he  deny  ? 
0  ye !  who,  from  this  rock  of  ages,  leap. 
Disdainful,  plunging  headlong  in  the  deep  ! 
What  cordial  joy,  what  consolation  strong, 
Whatever  winds  arise,  or  billows  roll, 
Our  interest  in  the  master  of  the  storm  ! 
Cling  there,  and  in  wreck'd  nature's  ruins  smile  ; 
While  vile  apostates  tremble  in  a  calm. 

Man !  know  thyself.     All  wisdom  centres  there  ; 
To  none  man  seems  ignoble,  but  to  man  ; 
Angels  that  grandeur,  men  o'erlook,  admire : 
How  long  shall  human  nature  be  their  book, 
Degen'rate  mortal !  and  unread  by  thee  ? 
The  beam  dim  reason  sheds  shows  wonders  there ; 


110  THE     COMPLAINT. 

What  high  contents  !  illustrious  faculties  ! 
But  the  grand  comment,  which  displays  at  full 
Our  human  height,  scarce  sever'd  from  divine. 
By  Heav'n  composed,  was  publish'd  on  the  cross. 

Who  looks  on  that,  and  sees  not  in  himself 
An  awful  stranger,  a  terrestrial  God  ? 
A  glorious  partner  with  the  deity 
In  that  high  attribute,  immortal  life  ? 
If  a  God  bleeds,  he  bleeds  not  for  a  worm  : 
I  gaze,  and  as  I  gaze,  my  mounting  soul 
Catches  strange  fire,  eternity  !  at  thee  ; 
And  drops  the  world — or  rather,  more  enjoys : 
How  chang'd  the  face  of  nature !  how  improved  ! 
What  seem'd  a  chaos,  shines  a  glorious  world. 
Or,  what  a  world,  an  Eden  ;  heigh ten'd  all ! 
It  is  another  scene  !  another  self ! 
And  still  another,  as  time  rolls  along ; 
And  that  a  self  far  more  illustrious  still. 
Beyond  long  ages,  yet  roll'd  up  in  shades 
Unpierc'd  by  bold  conjecture's  keenest  ray, 
What  evolutions  of  surprising  fate  ! 
How  nature  opens,  and  receives  my  soul 


NIGHT     IV.  Ill 


In  boundless  walks  of  raptur'd  thought !  where  gods 
Encounter,  and  embrace  me  !     What  new  births 
Of  strange  adventure,  foreign  to  the  sun. 
Where  what  now  charms,  perhaps,  whatever  exists, 
Old  time,  and  fair  creation,  are  forgot ! 

Is  this  extravagant  ?     Of  man  we  form 
Extravagant  conception,  to  be  just : 
Conception  unconfin'd  wants  wing  to  reach  him : 
Beyond  its  reach,  the  godhead  only,  more. 
He,  the  great  Father  !  kindled  at  one  flame 
The  world  of  rationals  ;  one  spirit  pour'd 
From  Spirit's  awful  fountain  ;  pour'd  Himself 
Through  all  their  souls  ;  but  not  in  equal  stream. 
Profuse,  or  frugal,  of  th'  inspiring  God, 
As  his  wise  plan  demanded ;  and  when  past 
Their  various  trials,  in  their  various  spheres, 
If  they  continue  rational,  as  made, 
Resorbs  them  all  into  Himself  again  ; 
His  throne  their  centre,  and  His  smile  their  crown. 

Why  doubt  we,  then,  the  glorious  truth  to  sing, 
Though  yet  unsung,  as  deem'd  perhaps  too  bold  ? 
Angels  are  men  of  a  superior  kind  ; 


112  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Angels  are  men  in  lighter  habit  clad, 
High  o'er  celestial  mountains  wing'd  in  flight ; 
And  men  are  angels,  loaded  for  an  hour, 
Who  wade  this  miry  vale,  and  climb  with  pain, 
And  slipp'ry  step,  the  bottom  of  the  steep. 
Angels  their  failings,  mortals  have  their  praise  ; 
While  here,  of  corps  ethereal,  such  enroll'd. 
And  summon'd  to  the  glorious  standard  soon 
Which  flames  eternal  crimson  through  the  skies. 
Nor  are  our  brothers  thoughtless  of  their  kin, 
Yet  absent ;  but  not  absent  from  their  love. 
Michael  has  fought  our  battles  ;  Raphael  sung 
Our  triumphs ;   Gabriel  on  our  errands  flown, 
Sent  by  the  Sov'reign :  and  are  these,  0  man ! 
Thy  friends,  thy  warm  allies  ?  and  thou  (shame  burn 
The  cheek  to  cinder !)   rival  to  the  brute  ? 

Religion  's  all.     Descending  from  the  skies 
To  wretched  man,  the  goddess  in  her  left 
Holds  out  this  world,  and,  in  her  right,  the  next ; 
Religion !  the  sole  voucher  man  is  man  ; 
Supporter  sole  of  man  above  himself ; 
Ev'n  in  this  night  of  frailty,  change,  and  death, 


NIGHT     IV.  113 


She  gives  the  soul  a  soul  that  acts  a  god. 
Religion  !  Providence  !  an  after-state ! 
Here  is  firm  footing ;  here  is  solid  rock  ; 
This  can  support  us  ;  all  is  sea  besides ; 
Sinks  under  us  ;  bestorms,  and  then  devours. 
His  hand  the  good  man  fastens  on  the  skies, 
And  bids  earth  roll,  nor  feels  her  idle  whirl. 

As  when  a  wretch,  from  thick,  polluted  air. 
Darkness,  and  stench,  and  suffocating  damps, 
And  dungeon  horrors,  by  kind  fate  discharg'd. 
Climbs  some  fair  eminence,  where  ether  pure 
Surrounds  him,  and  Elysian  prospects  rise, 
His  heai't  exults,  his  spirits  cast  their  load  ; 
As  if  new  born,  he  triumphs  in  the  change ; 
So  joys  the  soul,  when  from  inglorious  aims. 
And  sordid  sweets,  from  feculence  and  froth 
Of  ties  terrestrial,  set  at  large  she  mounts 
To  reason's  region,  her  own  element. 
Breathes  hopes  immortal,  and  affects  the  skies. 

Religion !  thou  the  soul  of  happiness  ; 
And  groaning  Calvary,  of  thee !  there  shine 
The  noblest  truths ;  there  strongest  motives  sting 


114  THE     COMPLAINT. 

There,  sacred  violence  assaults  the  soul ; 
There,  nothing  but  compassion  is  forborne. 
Can  love  allure  us  ?   or  can  terror  awe  ? 
He  weeps  ! — the  falUng  drop  puts  out  the  sun : 
He  sighs  ! — the  sigh  earth's  deep  foundation  shakes. 
If,  in  his  love,  so  terrible,  what  then 
His  wrath  inflam'd  ?  his  tenderness  on  fire  ? 
Like  soft,  smooth  oil,  outblazing  other  fires  ? 
Can  pray'r,  can  praise  avert  it  ? — Thou,  my  all ! 
My  theme  !  my  inspiration  !  and  my  crown  ! 
My  strength  in  age  !  my  rise  in  low  estate  ! 
My  soul's  ambition,  pleasure,  wealth  ! — my  world  ! 
My  light  in  darkness !  and  my  life  in  death  ! 
My  boast  through  time  !  bliss  through  eternity  ! 
Eternity,  too  short  to  speak  thy  praise ! 
Or  fathom  thy  profound  of  love  to  man ! 
To  man  of  men  the  meanest,  ev'n  to  me  ; 
My  Sacrifice  !  my  God  ! — what  things  are  these  ! 
What  then  art  Thou  ?   by  what  name  shall  I  call 
Thee  ? 
Knew  I  the  Name  devout  archangels  use. 
Devout  archangels  should  the  name  enjoy 


IGHT     IV.  115 


By  me  unrival'd ;  thousands  more  sublime, 
None  half  so  dear,  as  that,  which  though  unspoke, 
Still  glows  at  heart :  0  how  omnipotence 
Is  lost  in  love  !     Thou  great  philanthropist ! 
Father  of  angels  !  but  the  friend  of  man  ! 

I     Like  Jacob,  fondest  of  the  younger  born  ! 

I     Thou,  who  didst  save  him,  snatch  the  smoking  brand 
From  out  the  flames,  and  quench  it  in  Thy  blood ! 
How  art  thou  pleas'd,  by  bounty  to  distress  ! 
To  make  us  groan  beneath  our  gratitude. 
Too  big  for  birth  !  to  favor,  and  confound ; 
To  challenge,  and  to  distance,  all  return ! 
Of  lavish  love  stupendous  heights  to  soar. 
And  leave  praise  panting  in  the  distant  vale  ! 
Thy  right  too  great  defrauds  Thee  of  Thy  due  ; 
And  sacrileofious  our  sublimest  sonof. 
But  since  the  naked  will  obtains  thy  smile, 
Beneath  this  monument  of  praise  unpaid. 
And  future  life  symphonious  to  my  strain, 
(That  noblest  hymn  to  heaven !)  for  ever  lie 
Intomb'd  by  fear  of  death !  and  ev'ry  fear, 
The  dread  of  ev'ry  evil,  but  thy  frown. 


116  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Whom  see  I  yonder,  so  demurely  smile  ? 
Laughter  a  labor,  and  might  break  their  rest. 
Ye  quietists,  in  homage  to  the  skies ! 
Serene  !  of  soft  address  !  who  mildly  make 
An  unobtrusive  tender  of  your  hearts, 
Abhorring  violence  !  who  halt  indeed  ; 
But,  for  the  blessing,  wrestle  not  with  heaven ! 
Think  you  my  song  too  turbulent  ?  too  warm  ? 
Are  passions,  then,  the  pagans  of  the  soul  ? 
Reason  alone  baptiz'd  ?  alone  ordain'd 
To  touch  things  sacred  ?  oh  for  warmer  still ! 
Guilt  chills  my  zeal,  and  age  benumbs  my  powers ; 
Oh  for  an  humbler  heart,  and  prouder  song ! 
Thou,  my  much  injur'd  theme !  with  that  soft  eye, 
Which  melted  o'er  doom'd  Salem,  deign  to  look 
Compassion  to  the  coldness  of  my  breast ; 
And  pardon  to  the  winter  in  my  strain. 

Oh  ye  cold-hearted,  frozen,  formalists ! 
On  such  a  theme  'tis  impious  to  be  calm  ; 
Passion  is  reason,  transport  temper,  here. 
Shall  Heav'n,  which  gave  us  ardor,  and  has  shown 
Her  own  for  man  so  strongly,  not  disdain 


NIGHT     IV.  117 


What  smooth  emollients  in  theology 
Recumbent  virtue's  downy  doctors  preach, 
That  prose  of  piety,  a  lukewarm  praise  ? 
Rise  odors  sweet  from  incense  uninflam'd  ? 
Devotion,  when  lukewarm,  is  undevout ; 
But  when  it  glow?,  its  heat  is  struck  to  heaven ; 
To  human  hearts  her  golden  harps  are  strung ; 
High  heav'n's  orchestra  chaunts  amen  to  man. 
Hear  I,  or  dream  I  hear,  their  distant  strain. 
Sweet  to  the  soul,  and  tasting  strong  of  heaven, 
Soft  wafted  on  celestial  pity's  plume. 
Through  the  vast  spaces  of  the  universe, 
To  cheer  me  in  this  melancholy  gloom  ? 
Oh  when  will  death  (now  stingless,)  like  a  friend. 
Admit  me  of  their  choir  ?  oh  when  will  death. 
This  mould'ring,  old,  partition  wall  throw  down  ? 
Give  beings,  one  in  nature,  one  abode  ? 
Oh  death  divine  !  that  giv'st  us  to  the  skies ! 
Great  future !  glorious  patron  of  the  past. 
And  present !  when  shall  I  thy  shrine  adore  ? 
From  nature's  continent,  immensely  wide, 
Immensely  blest,  this  little  isle  of  life. 


118  THE     COMPLAINT. 

This  dark,  incarcerating  colony, 

Divides  us.     Happy  day !  that  breaks  our  chain  ; 

That  manumits ;  that  calls  from  exile  home  ; 

That  leads  to  nature's  great  metropolis, 

And  re-admits  us,  through  the  guardian  hand 

Of  elder  brothers,  to  our  father's  throne ; 

Who  hears  our  advocate,  and,  through  his  wounds 

Beholding  man,  allows  that  tender  name. 

*Tis  this  makes  Christian  triumph  a  command : 

*Tis  this  makes  joy  a  duty  to  the  wise ; 

'Tis  impious,  in  a  good  man,  to  be  sad, 

Seest  thou,  Lorenzo  !  where  hangs  all  our  hope  ? 
Touch'd  by  the  cross,  we  live  ;  or,  more  than  die ; 
That  touch  which  touch'd  not  angels  ;  more  divine 
Than  that  which  touch'd  confusion  into  form. 
And  darkness  into  glory ;  partial  touch  ! 
InefFabl}^  pre-eminent  regard ! 
Sacred  to  man,  and  sov'reign  through  the  whole 
Lonof  golden  chain  of  miracles,  which  hangs 
From  heav'n  through  all  duration,  and  supports. 
In  one  illustrious,  and  amazing  plan, 
Thy  welfare,  nature !  and  thy  God's  renown ; 


NIGHT     IV.  119 


That  touch,  with  charm  celestial,  heals  the  soul 
Diseas'd,  drives  pain  from  guilt,  hghts  life  in  death, 
Turns  earth  to  heav'n,  to  heav'nly  thrones  transforms 
The  ghastly  ruins  of  the  mould'ring  tomb. 

Dost  ask  me  when  ?  when  he  who  died  returns  ? 
Returns,  how  chang'd  !  where  then  the  man  of  woe  ? 
In  glory's  terrors  all  the  Godhead  burns ; 
And  all  his  courts,  exhausted  by  the  tide 
Of  Deities  triumphant  in  his  train. 
Leave  a  stupendous  solitude  in  Heaven  ; 
Replenish'd  soon  ;  replenish'd  with  increase 
Of  pomp,  and  multitude ;  a  radiant  band 
Of  angels  new  ;  of  angels  from  the  tomb. 

Is  this  by  fancy  thrown  remote  ?  and  rise 
Dark  doubts  between  the  promise  and  event  ? 
I  send  thee  not  to  volumes  for  thy  cure ; 
Read  nature  ;  nature  is  a  friend  to  truth ; 
Nature  is  Christian  ;  preaches  to  mankind  ; 
And  bids  dead  matter  aid  us  in  our  creed. 
Hast  thou  ne'er  seen  the  comet's  flaming  flight  ? 
Th'  illustrious  stranger  passing,  terror  sheds 
On  gazing  nations,  from  his  fiery  train 


120  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Of  length  enormous  ;  takes  his  ample  round 
Through  depths  of  ether;  coasts  unnumber'd  worlds. 
Of  more  than  solar  glory ;  doubles  wide 
Heav'n's  mighty  cape ;  and  then  revisits  earth, 
From  the  long  travel  of  a  thousand  years. 
Thus,  at  the  destin'd  period,  shall  return 
He,  once  on  earth,  who  bids  the  comet  blaze  : 
And  with  Him  all  our  triumph  o'er  the  tomb. 

Nature  is  dumb  on  this  important  point ; 
Or  hope  precarious  in  low  whisper  breathes  ; 
Faith  speakes  aloud,  distinct ;  ev'n  adders  hear. 
But  turn,  and  dart  into  the  dark  again. 
Faith  builds  a  bridge  across  the  gulph  of  death, 
To  break  the  shock  blind  nature  cannot  shun, 
And  lands  thought  smoothly  on  the  farther  shore. 
Death's  terror  is  the  mountain  faith  removes  ; 
That  mountain  barrier  between  man  and  peace. 
'Tis  faith  disarms  destruction ;  and  absolves 
From  every  clamorous  charge,  the  guiltless  tomb. 

Why  disbelieve?  Lorenzo  ! — "Reason  bids. 
All-sacred  reason." — Hold  her  sacred  still ; 
Nor  shalt  thou  want  a  rival  in  thy  flame : 


NIGHT     IV.  121 


All-sacred  reason !  source,  and  soul,  of  all 
Demanding  praise,  on  earth,  or  earth  above  ! 
My  heart  is  thine :  deep  in  its  inmost  folds, 
Live  thou  with  life ;  hve  dearer  of  the  two. 
Wear  I  the  blessed  cross,  by  fortune  stamp'd 
On  passive  nature,  before  thought  was  born  ? 
My  birth's  blind  bigot !  fired  with  local  zeal ! 
No  ;  reason  rebaptiz'd  me  when  adult  ? 
Weigh'd  true  and  false  in  her  impartial  scale ; 
My  heart  became  the  convert  of  my  head ; 
And  made  that  choice,  which  once  was  but  my  fate. 
"  On  argument  alone  my  faith  is  built ;" 
Reason  pursu'd  is  faith  ;  and,  unpursu'd 
Where  proof  invites  ;  'tis  reason,  then,  no  more  : 
And  such  our  proof,  that,  or  our  faith  is  right. 
Or  reason  lies,  and  Heav'n  design'd  it  wrong : 
Absolve  we  this  ?     What,  then,  is  blasphemy  ? 

Fond  as  we  are,  and  justly  fond  of  faith. 
Reason,  we  grant,  demands  our  first  regard  ; 
The  mother  honor 'd,  as  the  daughter  dear ; 
i     Reason  the  root,  fair  faith  is  but  the  flower ; 
The  fading  flow'r  shall  die ;  but  reason  lives 


122  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Immortal,  as  her  Father  in  the  skies. 
When  faith  is  virtue,  reason  makes  it  so. 
Wrong  not  the  Christian ;  think  not  reason  yours ; 
'Tis  reason  our  great  Master  holds  so  dear ; 
'Tis  reason's  injur'd  rights  His  wrath  resents  ; 
'Tis  reason's  voice  obey'd  His  glories  crown ; 
To  give  lost  reason  life,  He  pour'd  His  own : 
Believe,  and  show  the  reason  of  a  man  ; 
Believe,  and  taste  the  pleasure  of  a  God , 
Believe,  and  look  with  triumph  on  the  tomb : 
Thro'  reason's  wounds  alone,  thy  faith  can  die ; 
Which  dying,  tenfold  terror  gives  to  death, 
And  dips  in  venom  his  twice-mortal  sting. 

Learn  hence  what  honors,  what  loud  Paeans  due 
To  those,  who  push  our  antidote  aside ; 
Those  boasted  friends  to  reason,  and  to  man. 
Whose  fatal  love  stabs  ev'ry  joy,  and  leaves 
Death's  terror  heighten'd  gnawing  on  his  heart. 
These  pompous  sons  of  reason  idoliz'd, 
And  vilified  at  once ;  of  reason  dead, 
Then  deified,  as  monarchs  were  of  old. 
What  conduct  plants  proud  laurels  on  their  brow  ? 


NIGHT     IV.  123 


While  love  of  Truth  thro'  all  then*  camp  resounds. 
They  draw  pride's  curtain  o'er  the  noon-tide  ray ; 
Spike  up  their  inch  of  reason,  on  the  point 
Of  philosophic  wit,  called  argument ; 
And  then,  exulting  in  their  taper,  cry, 
"  Behold  the  sun :"  and  Indian-like  adore. 

Talk  they  of  morals  ?     0  thou  bleeding  love ! 
Thou  maker  of  new  morals  to  mankind  ! 
The  grand  morality  is  love  of  thee. 
As  wise  as  Socrates,  if  such  they  were, 
(Nor  will  they  bate  of  that  sublime  renown) 
As  wise  as  Socrates,  might  justly  stand 
The  definition  of  a  modern  fool. 

Christian  is  the  highest  style  of  man 
And  is  there,  who  the  blessed  cross  wipes  off, 
As  a  foul  blot,  from  his  dishonor'd  brow  ? 
If  angels  tremble,  'tis  at  such  a  sight : 
The  wretch  they  quit,  desponding  of  their  charge, 
More  struck  with  grief  or  wonder,  who  can  tell  ? 

Ye  sold  to  sense !  ye  citizens  of  earth  ! 
(For  such  alone  the  Chris lian  banner  fly) 
Know  ye  how  wise  your  choice,  haw  great  your  gain? 


124  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Behold  the  picture  of  earth's  happiest  man : 
"  He  calls  his  wish,  it  comes ;  he  sends  it  back. 
And  says  he  call'd  another ;  that  arrives. 
Meets  the  same  welcome ;  yet  he  still  calls  on ; 
Till  One  calls  him,  who  varies  not  his  call, 
But  holds  him  fast,  in  chains  of  darkness  bound, 
Till  nature  dies,  and  judgment  sets  him  free ; 
A  freedom  far  less  welcome  than  his  chain." 

But  grant  man  happy ;  grant  him  happy  long ; 
Add  to  hfe's  highest  prize  her  latest  hour ; 
That  hour  so  late,  is  nimble  in  approach, 
That,  hke  a  post,  comes  on  in  full  career ; 
How    swift    the    shuttle    flies,    that    weaves    thy 

shroud ! 
Wherei  is  the  fable  of  thy  former  years  ? 
Thrown  down  the  gulf  of  time ;  as  far  from  thee 
As  they  had  ne'er  been  thine ;  the  day  in  hand. 
Like  a  bird  struggling  to  get  loose,  is  going ; 
Scarce  now  possessed,  so  suddenly  'tis  gone ; 
And  each  swift  moment  fled,  is  death  advanced 
By  strides  as  swift :  eternity  is  all ; 
And  whose  eternity  ?  who  triumphs  there  ? 


NIGHT     IV.  125 


Bathing  forever  in  the  font  of  bhss ! 

Forever  basking  in  the  Deity  ! 

Lorenzo  !  who  ? — Thy  conscience  shall  reply. 

0  give  it  leave  to  speak ;  'twill  speak  ere  long, 
Thy  leave  unask'd  :  Lorenzo !  hear  it  now, 
While  useful  its  advice,  its  accent  mild. 
By  the  great  edict,  by  divine  decree. 
Truth  is  deposited  with  man's  last  hour ; 
An  honest  hour,  and  faithful  to  her  trust ; 
Truth,  eldest  daughter  of  the  Deity ; 
Truth,  of  his  council,  when  he  made  the  worlds ; 
Nor    less,    when    he    shall    judge    the    worlds    he 

made; 
Tho'  silent  long,  and  sleeping  ne'er  so  sound, 
Smother'd  with  errors,  and  oppress'd  with  toys, 
That  heav'n-commission'd  hour  no  sooner  calls, 
But  from  her  cavern  in  the  soul's  abyss. 
Like  him  they  fable  under  ^tna  whelm'd. 
The  goddess  bursts  in  thunder,  and  in  flame ; 
Loudly  convinces,  and  severely  pains. 
Dark  demons  I  discharge,  and  hydra-stings; 
The  keen  vibrations  of  bright  truth — is  hell : 


126  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Just  definition !  tho'  by  schools  untaught. 
Ye  deaf  to  truth  !  peruse  this  parson'd  page. 
And  trust,  for  once,  a  prophet,  and  a  priest ; 
"  Men  may  live  fools,  but  fools  they  cannot  die.* 


NIGHT  V. 

THE     RELAPSE. 


TO    THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE    THE    EARL    OF    LITCHFIELD. 

Lorenzo  !  to  recriminate  is  just. 

Fondness  for  fame  is'  avarice  of  air. 

I  grant  the  man  is  vain  who  writes  for  praise. 

Praise  no  man  e'er  deserved,  who  sought  no  more. 

As  just  thy  second  charge.     I  grant  the  muse 
Has  often  blush'd  at  her  degen'rate  sons, 
Retain'd  by  sense  to  plead  her  filthy  cause, 
To  raise  the  low,  to  magnify  the  mean. 
And  subtilize  the  gross  into  refined ; 
As  if  to  magic  numbers'  pow'rful  charm 
'Twas  given  to  make  a  civet  of  their  song 
Obscene,  and  sweeten  ordure  to  perfume.  _  J^lJ&-CM^^    -'  A 
Wit,  a  true  Pagan,  deifies  the  brute. 
And  lifts  our  swine  enjoyments  from  the  mire. 


128  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  fact  notorious,  nor  obscure  the  cause. 
We  wear  the  chains  of  pleasure  and  of  pride ; 
These  share  the  man,  and  these  distract  him  too : 
Draw  different  ways,  and  clash  in  their  commands. 
Pride,  like  an  eagle,  builds  among  the  stars ; 
But  Pleasure,  lark-like,  nests  upon  the  ground. 
Joys  shared  by  brute- creation  Pride  resents ; 
Pleasure  embraces :  man  would  both  enjoy. 
And  both  at  once ;  a  point  how  hard  to  gain  ! 
But  what  can't  Wit,  when  stung  by  strong  desire  ? 

Wit  dares  attempt  this  arduous  enterprise. 
Since  joys  of  sense  can't  rise  to  Reason's  taste, 
In  subtle  Sophistry's  laborious  forge. 
Wit  hammers  out  a  reason  new,  that  stoops 
To  sordid  scenes,  and  meets  them  with  applause. 
Wit  calls  the  Graces  the  chaste  zone  to  loose ; 
Nor  less  than  a  plump  god  to  fill  the  bowl ; 
A  thousand  phantoms  and  a  thousand  spells, 
A  thousand  opiates  scatters  to  delude, 
To  fascinate,  inebrate,  lay  asleep. 
And  the  fool'd  mind  delightfully  confound. 
Thus  that  which  shock'd  the  judgment  shocks  no  more  ; 


NIGHT     V.  129 


That  which  gave  Pride  oflfence,  no  more  offends. 
Pleasure  and  Pride,  by  nature  mortal  toes, 
At  war  eternal  which  in  man  shall  reign. 
By  Wit's  address  patch  up  a  fatal  peace. 
And  hand  in  hand  lead  on  the  rank  debauch. 
From  rank,  refined  to  deUcate  and  gay. 
Art,  cursed  Art !  wipes  off  the  indebted  blush 
From  Nature's  cheek,  and  bronzes  every  shame. 
Man  smiles  in  ruin,  glories  in  his  guilt, 
And  Infamy  stands  candidate  for  praise. 

All  writ  by  man  in  favor  of  the  soul, 
These  sensual  ethics  far,  in  bulk,  transcend. 
The  flow'rs  of  eloquence  profusely  pour'd 
O'er  spotted  Vice,  fill  half  the  letter'd  world. 
Can  poAv'rs  of  genius  exercise  their  page. 
And  consecrate  enormities  with  song  ? 

But  let  not  these  inexpiable  strains 
Condemn  the  muse  that  knows  her  dignity, 
Nor  meanly  stops  at  time,  but  holds  the  world 
As  'tis  in  Nature's  ample  field,  a  point, 
A  point  in  her  esteem  ;  from  whence  to  start, 
And  run  the  round  of  universal  space. 


130  THE     COMPLAINT, 

To  visit  being  universal  there, 

And  being's  Source,  that  utmost  flight  of  mind  ! 

Yet  spite  of  this  so  vast  circumference, 

Well  knows,  but  what  is  moral,  nought  is  great. 

Sing  syrens  only  ?    Do  not  angels  sing  ? 

There  is  in  Poesy  a  decent  pride, 

Which  well  becomes  her  when  she  speaks  to  Prose, 

Her  younger  sister,  haply  not  more  wise. 

Think'st  thou,  Lorenzo,  to  find  pastimes  hei-e  ? 
No  guilty  passion  blown  into  a  flame. 
No  foible  flatter'd,  dignity  disgraced. 
No  fairy  field  of  fiction,  all  on  flower. 
No  rainbow  colors  here,  or  silken  tale  ; 
But  solemn  counsels,  images  of  awe. 
Truths  which  Eternity  lets  fall  on  man 
With  double  weight,  thro'  these  revolving  spheres, 
This  death-deep  silence,  and  incumbent  shade ; 
Thoughts  such  as  shall  revisit  your  last  hour. 
Visit  uncall'd,  and  live  when  life  expires  ; 
And  thy  dark  pencil.  Midnight !  darker  still 
In  melancholy  dipp'd,  embrowns  the  whole. 

Yet  this,  even  this,  my  laughter-loving  friends ! 


NIGHT     V.  131 


Lorenzo  !  and  thy  brothers  of  the  smile ! 
If  what  imports  you  most  can  most  engage, 
Shall  steal  your  ear  and  chain  you  to  my  song. 
Or  if  you  fail  me,  know  the  wise  shall  taste 
The  truths  I  sing :  the  truths  I  sing  shall  feel, 
And,  feeling,  give  assent ;  and  their  assent 
Is  ample  recompense ;  is  more  than  praise. 
But  chiefly  thine,  0  Litchfield  !  nor  mistake ! 
Think  not  unintroduced  I  force  my  way ; 
Narcissa,  not  unknown,  not  unallied 
By  virtue  or  by  blood,  illustrious  youth  ! 
To  thee  from  blooming  amaranthine  bow'rs, 
Where  all  the  language  Harmony,  descends 
Uncaird,  and  asks  admittance  for  the  muse : 
A  muse  that  will  not  pain  thee  with  thy  praise : 
Thy  praise  she  drops,  by  nobler  still  inspired. 
0  thou  blest  Spirit !  whether  the  supreme. 
Great  antemundane  Father  !  in  whose  breast 
Embryo  creation,  unborn  being,  dwelt, 
And  all  its  various  revolutions  roU'd 
Present,  though  future,  prior  to  themselves  ; 
Whose  breath  can  blow  it  into  nought  again ; 


132  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Or,  from  his  throne  some  delegated  pow'r, 

Who,  studious  of  our  peace,  dost  turn  the  thought 

From  vain  and  vile,  to  solid  and  sublime ! 

Unseen  thou  lead'st  me  to  delicious  draughts 

Of  inspiration,  from  a  purer  stream, 

And  fuller  of  the  god  than  that  which  burst 

From  famed  CastaHa  ;  nor  is  yet  allay'd 

My  sacred  thirst,  though  long  my  soul  has  ranged 

Through  pleasing  paths  of  moral  and  divine. 

By  thee  sustain'd,  and  lighted  by  the  stars. 

By  them  best  lighted  are  the  paths  of  thought , 
Nights  are  their  days,  their  most  illumin'd  hours  ! 
By  day  the  soul,  o'erborne  by  life's  career, 
Stunn'd  by  the  din,  and  giddy  with  the  glare. 
Reels  far  from  reason,  jostled  by  the  throng. 
By  day  the  soul  is  passive,  all  her  thoughts 
Impos'd,  precarious,  broken,  ere  mature. 
By  night  from  objects  free,  from  passion  cool, 
Thoughts  uncontroU'd,  and  unimpress'd,  the  births 
Of  pure  election,  arbitrary  range, 
Not  to  the  limits  of  one  world  confin'd ; 


NIGHT     V.  13t 


But  from  ethereal  travels  light  on  earth. 
As  voyagers  drop  anchor,  for  repose. 

Let  Indians,  and  the  gay,  like  Indians,  fond 
Of  feather'd  fopperies,  the  sun  adore : 
Darkness  has  more  divinity  for  me ; 
It  strikes  thought  inward ;  it  drives  back  the  soul 
To  settle  on  herself,  our  point  supreme ! 
There  lies  our  theatre  ;  there  sits  our  judge. 
Darkness  the  curtain  drops  o'er  life's  dull  scene ; 
'Tis  the  kind  hand  of  providence  stretch'd  out 
'Twixt  man  and  vanity ;  'tis  reason's  reign. 
And  virtue's  too ;  these  tutelary  shades 
Are  man's  asylum  from  the  tainted  throng. 
Night  is  the  good  man's  friend,  and  guardian  too ; 
It  no  less  rescues  virtue,  than  inspires. 

Yirtue  forever  frail,  as  fair,  below. 
Her  tender  nature  suffers  in  the  crowd, 
Nor  touches  on  the  world,  without  a  stain  : 
The  world  's  infectious  ;  few  bring  back  at  eve. 
Immaculate,  the  manners  of  the  morn. 
Something  we  thought,  is  blotted  ;  we  resolv'd, 
Is  shaken ;  we  renounced,  returns  again. 


134  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Each  salutation  may  slide  in  a  sin 

Unthought  before,  or  fix  a  former  flaw. 

Nor  is  it  strange :  light,  motion,  concourse,  noise, 

All,  scatter  us  abroad  ;  thought  outward-bound 

Neglectful  of  our  home  affairs,  flies  off" 

In  fume  and  dissipation,  quits  her  charge. 

And  leaves  the  breast  unguarded  to  the  foe. 

Present  example  gets  within  our  guard. 
And  acts  with  double  force,  by  few  repell'd. 
Ambition  fires  ambition ;  love  of  gain 
Strikes,  like  a  pestilence,  from  breast  to  breast ; 
Riot,  pride,  perfidy,  blue  vapors  breathe ; 
And  inhumanity  is  caught  from  man ; 
From  smiling  man.     A  slight,  a  single  glance, 
And  shot  at  random,  often  has  brought  home 
A  sudden  fever,  to  the  throbbing  heart. 
Of  envy,  rancor,  or  impure  desire. 
We  see,  we  hear,  with  peril ;  safety  dwells 
Remote  from  multitude  ;  the  world's  a  school 
Of  wrong,  and  what  proficients  swarm  around ! 
We  must  or  imitate  or  disapprove ; 
Must  list  as  their  accomplices,  or  foes ; 


NIGHT     V.  135 


That  stains  our  innocence ;  this  wounds  our  peace. 
From  nature's  birth,  hence,  wisdom  has  been  smit 
With  sweet  recess,  and  languish'd  for  the  shade. 

This  sacred  shade,  and  solitude,  what  is  it  ? 
'Tis  the  felt  presence  of  the  Deity. 
Few  are  the  faults  we  flatter  when  alone. 
Vice  sinks  in  her  allurements,  is  ungilt, 
And  looks,  like  other  objects,  black  by  night. 
By  night  an  atheist  half  believes  a  god. 

Niorht  is  fair  virtue's  immemorial  friend  ; 
The  conscious  moon,  through  every  distant  age 
Has  held  a  lamp  to  wisdom,  and  let  fall 
On  contemplation's  eye,  her  purging  ray. 
The  fam'd  Athenian,  he  who  woo'd  from  heaven 
Philosophy  the  fair,  to  dwell  with  men, 
And  form  their  manners,  not  inflame  their  pride, 
While  o'er  his  head,  as  fearful  to  molest 
His  lab'ring  mind,  the  stars  in  silence  slide. 
And  seem  all  gazing  on  their  future  guest, 
See  him  soliciting  his  ardent  suit. 
In  private  audience :  all  the  live-long  night. 
Rigid  in  thought,  and  motionless,  he  stands ; 


136  THE     C  OMPLAIN  T, 

Nor  quits  his  theme,  or  posture,  till  the  sun 
(Rude  drunkard  rising  rosy  from  the  main  !) 
Disturbs  his  nobler  intellectual  beam, 
And  gives  him  to  the  tumult  of  the  world. 
Hail,  precious  moments !  stol'n  from  the  black  waste 
Of  murder'd  time  !  auspicious  midnight !  hail ! 
The  world  excluded,  ev'ry  passion  hushed. 
And  open'd  a  calm  intercourse  with  heav'n, 
Here  the  soul  sits  in  council ;  ponders  past, 
Predestines  future  action ;  sees,  not  feels. 
Tumultuous  life ;  and  reasons  with  the  storm  ; 
All  her  lies  answers,  and  thinks  down  her  charms. 

What  awful  joy  !  what  mental  liberty  ! 
I  am  not  pent  in  darkness ;  rather  say 
(If  not  too  bold)  in  darkness  I'm  erabower'd, 
Delightful  gloom  !  the  clust'ring  thoughts  around 
Spontaneous  rise,  and  blossom  in  the  shade ; 
But  droop  by  day,  and  sicken  in  the  sun. 
Thought  borrows  light  elsewhere  ;  from  that  Fii-st  Fire, 
Fountain  of  animation !  whence  descends 
Urania,  my  celestial  guest !  who  deigns 
Nio-htly  to  visit  me,  so  mean ;  and  now 


NIGHT     V.  13*7 


Conscious,  how  needful  discipline  to  man, 
From  pleasing  dalliance  with  the  charms  of  night 
My  wand'ring  thought  recalls,  to  what  excites 
Far  other  beat  of  heart ;  Narcissa's  tomb  ! 

Or  is  it  feeble  nature  calls  me  back, 
And  breaks  my  spirit  into  grief  again  ? 
Is  it  a  Stygian  vapor  in  my  blood  ? 
A  cold,  slow  puddle,  creeping  thro'  my  veins  ? 
Or  is  it  thus  with  all  men  ? — Thus,  with  all. 
What  are  we  ?     How  unequal !     Now  we  soar, 
And  now  we  sink ;  to  be  the  same  transcends 
Our  present  prowess.     Dearly  pays  the  soul 
For  lodging  ill ;  too  dearly  rents  her  clay. 
Reason,  a  baffled  counsellor  !  but  adds 
The  blush  of  weakness  to  the  bane  of  woe. 
The  noblest  spirit  fighting  her  hard  fate. 
In  this  damp,  dusky  region,  charg'd  with  storms, 
But  feebly  flutters,  yet  untaught  to  fly ; 
Or,  flying,  short  her  flight,  and  sure  her  fall. 
Our  utmost  strength,  when  down,  to  rise  again ; 
And  not  to  yield,  tho'  beaten,  all  our  praise. 

'Tis  vain  to  seek  in  men  for  more  than  man. 


138  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Tho'  proud  in  promise,  big  in  previous  thought, 
Experience  damps  our  triumph.     I,  who  late. 
Emerging  from  the  shadows  of  the  grave, 
Where  grief  detained  me  pris'ner,  mounting  high 
Threw  wide  the  gates  of  everlasting  day, 
And  call'd  mankind  to  glory,  shook  off  pain, 
Mortality  shook  off,  in  aether  pure, 
And  struck  the  stars ;  now  feel  my  spirits  fail ; 
They  drop  me  from  the  zenith ;  down  I  rush, 
Like  him  whom  fable  fledg'd  with  waxen  wings. 
In  sorrow  drown'd — but  not,  in  sorrow,  lost. 
How  wretched  is  the  man  who  never  mourn 'd ! 
I  dive  for  precious  pearl,  in  sorrow's  streani : 
Not  so  the  thoughtless  man  that  only  grieves ; 
Takes  all  the  torment  and  rejects  the  gain ; 
(Inestimable  gain !)  and  gives  heav'n  leave 
To  make  him  but  more  wretched,  not  more  wise. 

If  wisdom  is  our  lesson  (and  what  else 
Ennobles  man !  what  else  have  angels  learn'd  ?) 
Grief !  more  proficients  in  thy  school  are  made. 
Than  genius,  or  proud  learning,  e'er  could  boast. 
Voracious  learning,  often  over-fed. 


NIGHT     V.  139 


Digests  not  into  sense  her  motley  meal. 
This  bookcase,  with  dark  booty  almost  burst. 
This  forager  on  others'  wisdom,  leaves 
Her  native  farm,  her  reason,  quite  untill'd. 
With  mix'd  manure  she  surfeits  the  rank  soil, 
Dung'd,  but  not  dress'd ;  and  rich  to  beggary. 
A  pomp  untameable  of  weed  prevails. 
Her  servant's  wealth  incumber'd  wisdom  mourns. 

And  what  says  genius  ?     "  Let  the  dull  be  wise." 
Genius,  too  hard  for  right,  can  prove  it  wrong ; 
And  loves  to  boast,  where  blush  men  less  inspir'd. 
It  pleads  exemption  from  the  laws  of  sense ; 
Considers  reason  as  a  leveller ; 
And  scorns  to  share  a  blessing  with  the  crowd. 
That  wise  it  could  be,  thinks  an  ample  claim 
To  glory,  and  to  pleasure  gives  the  rest. 
Crassus  but  sleeps,  Ardelio  is  undone. 
Wisdom  less  shudders  at  a  fool,  than  wit. 

But  wisdom  smiles,  when  humbled  mortals  weep. 
When  sorrow  wounds  the  breast,  as  ploughs  the  glebe, 
And  hearts  obdurate  feel  her  soft'ning  shower. 
Her  seed  celestial,  then,  glad  wisdom  sows ; 


140  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Her  golden  harvest  triumphs  in  the  soil. 

If  so,  Narcissa !  welcome  ray  relapse ; 

I  '11  raise  a  tax  on  my  calamity, 

And  reap  rich  compensation  from  my  pain. 

I  '11  range  the  plenteous  intellectual  field ; 

And  gather  ev'ry  thought  of  sov'reign  power 

To  chase  the  moral  maladies  of  man  ; 

Thoughts,  which  may  bear  transplanting  to  the  skies, 

Tho'  natives  of  this  coarse,  penurious  soil ; 

Nor  wholly  wither  there,  where  seraphs  sing. 

Refin'd,  exalted,  not  annull'd  in  heaven. 

Reason,  the  sun  that  gives  them  birth,  the  same 

In  either  clime,  tho'  more  illustrious  there, 

These  choicely  cull'd,  and  elegantly  rang'd, 

Shall  form  a  garland  for  Narcissa's  tomb ; 

And,  peradventure,  of  no  fading  flowers. 

Say,  on  what  themes  shall  puzzled  choice  descend  ? 
"  Th'  importance  of  contemplating  the  tomb ; 
Why  men  decline  it ;  suicide's  foul  birth ; 
The  various  kinds  of  grief;  the  faults  of  age; 
And  death's  dread  character — invite  my  song." 

And  first  th'  importance  of  our  end  survey'd. 


NIGHT     V.  141 


Friends  counsel  quick  dismission  of  our  grief; 

Mistaken  kindness  !  our  hearts  heal  too  soon. 

Are  they  more  kind  than  He  who  struck  the  blow  ? 

Who  bid  it  do  His  errand  in  our  hearts, 

And  banish  peace,  till  nobler  guests  arrive, 

And  bring  it  back,  a  true,  and  endless  peace  ? 

Calamities  are  friends :  as  glaring  day 

Of  these  unnumber'd  lustres  robs  our  sight ; 

Prosperity  puts  out  unnumber'd  thoughts 

Of  import  high,  and  light  divine,  to  man. 

The  man  how  blest,  who,  sick  of  gaudy  scenes, 
(Scenes  apt  to  thurst  between  us  and  ourselves !) 
Is  led  by  choice  to  take  his  fav'rite  walk, 
Beneath  death's  gloomy,  silent,  cypress  shades, 
Unpierc'd  by  vanity's  fantastic  ray ; 
To  read  his  monuments,  to  weigh  his  dust, 
Visit  his  vaults,  and  dwell  among  the  tombs ! 
Lorenzo  !  read  with  me  Narcissa's  stone  ; 
(Narcissa  was  thy  fav'rite)  let  us  read 
Her  moral  stone ;  few  doctors  preach  so  well ; 
Few  orators  so  tenderly  can  touch 
The  feeling  heart.     What  pathos  in  the  date ! 


H2  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Apt  words  can  strike,  and  yet  in  them  we  see 
Faint  images  of  what  we  here  enjoy. 
What  cause  have  we  to  build  on  length  of  life  ? 
Temptations  seize,  when  fear  is  laid  asleep ; 
And  ill  foreboded  is  our  strongest  guard. 

See  from  her  tomb,  as  from  an  humble  shrine, 
Truth,  radiant  goddess  !  sallies  on  my  soul, 
And  puts  delusion's  dusky  train  to  flight  ; 
Dispels  the  mists  our  sultry  passions  raise. 
From  objects  low,  terrestial,  and  obscene ; 
And  shows  the  real  estimate  of  things  ; 
Which  no  man,  unafflicted,  ever  saw ; 
Pulls  off  the  veil  from  virtue's  rising  charms ; 
Detects  temptation  in  a  thousand  lies. 
Truth  bids  me  look  on  men,  as  autumn  leaves, 
And  all  they  bleed  for,  as  the  summer's  dust, 
Driv'n  by  the  whirlwind ;  lighted  by  her  beams, 
I  widen  my  horizon,  gain  new  powers. 
See  things  invisible,  feel  things  remote. 
Am  present  with  futurities ;  think  nought 
To  man  so  foreign,  as  the  joys  possess'd ; 
Nought  so  much  his,  as  those  beyond  the  grave. 


IGHT     V.  143 


No  folly  keeps  its  color  in  her  sight," 
Pale  worldly  wisdom  loses  all  her  charms ; 
In  pompous  promise  from  her  schemes  profound, 
If  future  fate  she  plans,  'tis  all  in  leaves, 
Like  sibyl,  unsubstantial,  fleeting  bliss  ! 
At  the  first  blast  it  vanishes  in  air. 
Not  so,  celestial :  wouldst  thou  know,  Lorenzo  ? 
How  differ  worldly  wisdom,  and  divine  ? 
Just  as  the  waning,  and  the  waxing  moon. 
More  empty  worldly  wisdom  ev'ry  day ; 
And  ev'iy  day  more  fair  her  rival  shines. 
When  later,  there  's  less  time  to  play  the  fool. 
Soon  our  whole  term  for  wisdom  is  expir'd 
(Thou  know'st  she  calls  no  council  in  the  grave)  ; 
And  everlasting  fool  is  writ  in  fire. 
Or  real  wisdom  wafts  us  to  the  skies. 

As  worldly  schemes  resemble  sibyl's  leaves. 
The  good  man's  days  to  sibyl's  books  compare, 
(In  ancient  story  read,  thou  know'st  the  tale) 
In  price  still  rising,  as  in  number  less, 
Inestimable  quite  his  final  hour. 
For  that  who  thrones  can  offer,  offer  thrones ; 


144  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Insolvent  worlds  the  purchase  cannot  pay. 
**  Oh  let  me  die  his  death  !"  all  nature  cries. 
"  Then  live  his  Hfe." — All  nature  falters  there. 
Our  great  physician  daily  to  consult, 
To  commune  with  the  grave,  our  only  cure. 

What  grave  prescribes  the  best  ? — A  friend's,  and  yet. 
From  a  friend's  grave,  how  soon  we  disengage  ? 
Ev'n  to  the  dearest,  as  his  marble,  cold. 
Why  are  friends  ravish'd  from  us  ?  'tis  to  bind. 
By  soft  affection's  ties,  on  human  hearts. 
The  thought  of  death,  which  reason,  too  supine. 
Or  misemployed,  so  rarely  fastens  there. 
Nor  reason,  nor  affection,  no,  nor  both 
Combin'd,  can  break  the  witchcrafts  of  the  world. 
Behold  th'  inexorable  hour  at  hand  ! 
Behold  th'  inexorable  hour  forgot ! 
And  to  forget  it  the  chief  aim  of  life, 
Tho'  well  to  ponder  it,  is  life's  chief  end. 

Is  death,  that  ever  threat'ning,  ne'er  remote. 
That  all-important,  and  that  only  sure, 
(Come  when  he  will)  an  unexpected  guest  ? 
Nay,  tho'  invited  by  the  loudest  calls 


NIGHT     V.  145 


Of  blind  imprudence,  unexpected  still  ? 
Tho'  num'rous  messengers  are  sent  before 
To  warn  his  great  arrival.     What  the  cause, 
The  wond'rous  cause,  of  this  mysterious  ill  ? 
All  heav'n  looks  down  astonish'd  at  the  sight. 

Is  it  that  life  has  sown  her  joys  so  thick, 
"We  can't  thrust  in  a  single  care  between  ? 
Is  it,  that  life  has  such  a  swarm  of  cares, 
The  thought  of  death  can't  enter  for  the  throng  ? 
Is  it,  that  time  steals  on  with  downy  feet. 
Nor  wakes  indulgence  from  her  golden  dream  ? 
To-day  is  so  hke  yesterday,  it  cheats ; 
We  take  the  lying  sister  for  the  same. 
Life  glides  away,  Lorenzo  !  like  a  brook : 
Forever  changing,  unperceiv'd  the  change. 
In  the  same  brook  none  ever  bath'd  him  twice ; 
To  the  same  life  none  ever  twice  awoke. 
We  call  the  brook  the  same  ;  the  same  we  think 
Our  life,  tho'  still  more  rapid  in  its  flow ; 
Nor  mark  the  much  irrevocably  laps'd. 
And  mingled  with  the  sea.     Or  shall  we  say 
(Retaining  still  the  brook  to  bear  us  on) 


146  THE     COMPLAINT. 

That  life  is  like  a  vessel  on  the  stream  ? 

In  life  embark'd,  we  smoothly  down  the  tide 

Of  time  descend,  but  not  on  time  intent ; 

Amus'd,  unconscious  of  the  gliding  wave ; 

Till  on  a  sudden  we  perceive  a  shock  ; 

We  start,  awake,  look  out ;  what  see  we  there  ? 

Our  brittle  bark  is  burst  on  Charon's  shore. 

Is  this  the  cause  death  flies  all  human  thought  ? 
Or  is  it,  judgment  by  the  will  struck  bhnd, 
That  domineering  mistress  of  the  soul ! 
Like  him  so  strong  by  Dalilah  the  fair  ? 
Or  is  it  fear  turns  startled  reason  back, 
From  looking  down  a  precipice  so  steep  ? 
'Tis  dreadful ;  and  the  dread  is  wisely  placed. 
By  nature  conscious  of  the  make  of  man. 
A  dreadful  friend  it  is,  a  terror  kind, 
A  flaming  sword  to  guard  the  tree  of  hfe. 
By  that  imaw'd,  in  life's  most  smiling  hour, 
The  good  man  would  repine ;  would  suffer  joys, 
And  burn  impatient  for  his  promised  skies. 
The  bad  on  each  punctilious  pique  of  pride. 
Or  gloom  of  humour,  would  give  rage  the  rein, 


NIGHT     V.  147 


Bound  o'er  the  barrier,  rush  into  the  dark. 
And  mar  the  schemes  of  providence  below. 

What  groan  was  that,  Lorenzo  ? — furies  !  rise ; 
And  drown,  in  your  less  execrable  yell, 
Britannia's  shame.     There  took  her  gloomy  flight, 
On  wing  impetuous,  a  black  sullen  soul, 
Blasted  from  hell,  with  horrid  lust  of  death. 
Thy  friend,  the  brave,  the  gallant  Altamont, 
So  call'd,  so  thought — and  then  he  fled  the  field. 
Less  base  the  fear  of  death,  than  fear  of  life. 
0  Britain,  infamous  for  suicide ! 
An  island  in  thy  manners !  far  disjoin'd 
From  the  whole  world  of  rationals  beside ! 
In  ambient  waves  plunge  thy  polluted  head, 
Wash  the  dire  stain,  nor  shock  the  Continent, 

But  thou  be  shock'd,  while  I  detect  the  cause 
Of  self-assault,  expose  the  monster's  birth. 
And  bid  abhorrence  hiss  it  round  the  world. 
Blame  not  thy  clime,  nor  chide  the  distant  sun  : 
The  sun  is  innocent,  thy  clime  absolv'd  : 
Immoral  climes  kind  nature  never  made. 


148  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  cause  I  sing  in  Eden  might  prevail, 
And  proves  it  is  thy  folly,  not  thy  fate. 

The  soul  of  man  (let  man  in  homage  bow. 
Who  names  his  soul),  a  native  of  the  skies  ! 
High-born,  and  free,  her  freedom  should  maintain, 
Unsold,  unraortgag'd  for  earth's  httle  bribes, 
Th'  illustrious  stranger,  in  this  foreign  land. 
Like  strangers,  jealous  of  her  dignity, 
Studious  of  home,  and  ardent  to  return, 
Of  earth  suspicious,  earth's  inchanted  cup 
With  cool  reserve  hght-touching,  should  indulge, 
,  On  immortaUty,  her  godlike  taste  ; 
There  take  large  draughts ;    make  her  chief  banquet 
there. 

But  some  reject  this  sustenance  divine ; 
To  beggarly  vile  appetites  descend  ; 
Ask  alms  of  earth,  for  guests  that  came  from  heaven ; 
Sink  into  slaves  ;  and  sell,  for  present  hire. 
Their  rich  reversion,  and  (what  shares  its  fate) 
Their  native  freedom,  to  the  prince  who  sways 
This  nether  world.     And  when  his  payments  fail. 
When  his  foul  basket  gorges  them  no  more ; 


NIGHT     V.  149 


Or  their  pall'd  palates  loath  the  basket  full ; 
Are  instantly,  with  wild  demoniac  rage. 
For  breaking  all  the  chains  of  pro\ddence. 
And  bursting  their  confinement ;  tho'  fast  barr'd 
By  laws  divine  and  human ;  guarded  strong 
With  horrors  doubled  to  defend  the  pass, 
The  blackest  nature,  or  dire  guilt,  can  raise  ; 
And  moated  round,  with  fathomless  destruction. 
Sure  to  receive  and  whelm  them  in  their  fall. 

Such,  Britons !  is  the  cause,  to  you  unknown, 
Or  worse,  o'erlook'd ;  o'erlook'd  by  magistrates, 
Thus,  criminals  themselves.     I  grant  the  deed 
Is  madness ;  but  the  madness  of  the  heart. 
And  what  is  that  ?     Our  utmost  bound  of  guilt. 
A  sensual,  unreflecting  life  is  big 
With  monstrous  births,  and  suicide,  to  crown 
The  black,  infernal  brood.     The  bold  to  break 
Heav'n's  law  supreme,  and  desperately  rush 
Thro'  sacred  nature's  murder,  on  their  own. 
Because  they  never  think  of  death,  they  die. 
'Tis  equally  man's  duty,  glory,  gain. 
At  once  to  shun,  and  meditate  his  end. 


160  THE     COMPLAINT. 

When  by  the  bed  of  languishment  we  sit, 

(The  seat  of  wisdom !  if  our  choice,  not  fate) 

Or,  o'er  our  dying  friends,  in  anguish  hang, 

Wipe  the  cold  dew,  or  stay  the  sinking  head. 

Number  their  moments,  and,  in  ev'ry  clock. 

Start  at  the  voice  of  an  eternity ; 

See  the  dim  lamp  of  life  just  feebly  lift 

An  agonizing  beam,  at  us  to  gaze. 

Then  sink  again,  and  quiver  into  death, 

That  most  pathetic  herald  of  our  own ; 

How  read  we  such  sad  scenes  ?     As  sent  to  man 

In  perfect  vengeance  ?     No  ;  in  pity  sent. 

To  melt  him  down  like  wax,  and  then  impress. 

Indelible,  death's  image  on  his  heart ; 

Bleeding  for  others,  trembling  for  himself. 

We  bleed,  we  tremble,  we  forget,  we  smile. 

The  mind  turns  fool,  before  the  cheek  is  dry. 

Our  quick-returning  folly  cancels  all ; 

As  the  tide  rushing  rases  what  is  writ 

In  yielding  sands,  and  smooths  the  letter'd  shore. 

Lorenzo  !  hast  thou  ever  weigh'd  a  sigh  ? 
Or  studied  the  philosophy  of  tears  ? 


NIGHTV.  151 


(A  science,  yet,  iinlectured  in  our  schools !) 
Hast  thou  descended  deep  into  the  breast, 
And  seen  their  source  ?     If  not,  descend  with  me 
And  trace  these  briny  riv'lets  to  their  springs. 
Our  fun'ral  tears,  from  diff'rent  causes,  rise. 
As  if  from  separate  cisterns  in  the  soul, 
Of  various  kinds,  they  flow.     From  tender  hearts, 
By  soft  contagion  call'd,  some  burst  at  once. 
And  stream  obsequious  to  the  leading  eye. 
Some  ask  more  time,  by  curious  art  distill'd. 
Some  hearts  in  secret  hard,  unapt  to  melt. 
Struck  by  the  magic  of  the  public  eye. 
Like  Moses'  smitten  rock,  gush  out  amain. 
Some  weep  to  share  the  fame  of  the  deceas'd. 
So  high  in  merit,  and  to  them  so  dear. 
They  dwell  on  praises,  which  they  think  they  share ; 
And  thus,  without  a  blush,  commend  themselves. 
Some  mourn- in  proof,  that  something  they  could  love. 
They  weep  not  to  relieve  their  grief,  but  show. 
Some  weep  in  perfect  justice  to  the  dead, 
As  conscious  all  their  love  is  in  arrear. 
Some  mischievously  weep,  not  unapprised 


152  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Tears,  sometimes,  aid  the  conquest  of  an  eye. 
With  what  address  the  soft  Ephesians  draw 
Their  sable  network  o'er  entangled  hearts  ? 
As  seen  thro'  crystal,  how  their  roses  glow. 
While  liquid  pearl  runs  trickling  down  their  cheek  ? 
Of  hers  not  prouder  Egypt's  wanton  queen, 
Carousing  gems,  herself  dissolv'd  in  love. 
Some  weep  at  death,  abstracted  from  the  dead, 
And  celebrate,  like  Charles,  their  own  decease. 
By  kind  construction  some  are  deem'd  to  weep. 
Because  a  decent  veil  conceals  their  joy. 

Some  weep  in  earnest ;  and  yet  weep  in  vain  ; 
As  deep  in  indiscretion,  as  in  woe. 
Passion,  bhnd  passion  !  impotently  pours 
Tears,  that  deserve  more  tears  ;  while  reason  sleeps ; 
Or  gazes,  like  an  idiot,  unconcern'd  ; 
Nor  comprehends  the  meaning  of  the  storm  ; 
Knows  not  it  speaks  to  her,  and  her  alone. 
Irrationals  all  sorrow  are  beneath. 
That  noble  gift !  that  privilege  of  man ! 
From  sorrow's  pang,  the  birth  of  endless  joy. 
But  these  are  barren  of  that  birth  divine : 


NIGHT     V.  153 


They  weep  impetuous,  as  the  summer  storm. 
And  full  as  short !  the  cruel  grief  soon  tam'd, 
They  make  a  pastime  of  the  stingless  tale ; 
Far  as  the  deep-resounding  knell,  they  spread 
The  dreadful  news,  and  hardly  feel  it  more. 
No  grain  of  wisdom  pays  them  for  their  woe. 

Half  round  the  globe,  the  tears  pump'd  up  by  death 
Are  spent  in  wat'ring  vanities  of  life ; 
In  making  folly  flourish  still  more  fair. 
When  the  sick  soul,  her  wonted  stay  withdrawn, 
Reclines  on  earth,  and  sorrows  in  the  dust ; 
Instead  of  learning  there  her  true  support, 
Tho'  there  thrown  down  her  true  support  to  learn. 
Without  heav'n's  aid,  impatient  to  be  blest. 
She  crawls  to  the  next  shrub,  or  bramble  vile, 
Tho'  from  the  stately  cedar's  arms  she  fell. 
With  stale,  foresworn  embraces,  clings  anew, 
The  stranger  weds,  and  blossoms,  as  before, 
In  all  the  fruitless  fopperies  of  life : 
Presents  her  weed,  well-fancied,  at  the  ball, 
And  raffles  for  the  death's-head  on  the  ring. 

So  Avept  Aurelia,  till  the  destin'd  youth 


7* 


154:  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Stepp'd  in,  witi  his  receipt  for  making  smiles. 

And  blanching  sables  into  bridal  bloom. 

So  wept  Lorenzo  fair  Clarissa's  fate ; 

Who  gave  that  angel  boy,  on  whom  he  doats ; 

And  died  to  give  him,  orphan'd  in  his  birth ! 

Not  such,  Narcissa,  my  distress  for  thee. 

I  '11  make  an  altar  of  thy  sacred  tomb 

To  sacrifice  to  wisdom. — What  wast  thou  ? 

"  Young,  gay,  and  fortunate !"     Each  yields  a  theme. 

I  '11  dwell  on  each,  to  shun  thought  more  severe ; 

(Heav'n  knows  I  labor  with  severer  still !) 

I  '11  dwell  on  each,  and  quite  exhaust  thy  death. 

A  soul  without  reflection,  like  a  pile 

Without  inhabitant,  to  ruin  runs. 

And,  first,  thy  youth.     What  says  it  to  gray  hairs  ? 
Narcissa,  I  'm  become  thy  pupil  now — 
Early,  bright,  transient,  chaste,  as  morning  dew. 
She  sparkled,  was  exhal'd,  and  went  to  heaven. 
Time  on  this  head  has  snow'd ;  yet  still  'tis  borne 
Aloft ;  nor  thinks  but  on  another's  grave. 
Cover'd  with  shame  I  speak  it,  age  severe 
Old  worn-out  vice  sets  down  for  virtue  fair. 


NIGHT     V.  155 


With  graceless  gravity,  chastising  youth. 

That  youth  chastis'd  surpassing  in  a  fault. 

Father  of  all,  forgetfulness  of  death ; 

As  if,  like  objects  pressing  on  the  sight. 

Death  had  advanced  too  near  us  to  be  seen : 

Or,  that  Ufe's  loan  time  ripen'd  into  right ; 

And  men  might  plead  prescription  from  the  grave ; 

Deathless,  from  repetition  of  reprieve. 

Deathless  !  far  from  it !  such  are  dead  already  ; 

Their  hearts  are  buried,  and  the  world  their  grave. 

Tell  me,  some  god  !  my  guardian  angel !  tell. 
What  thus  infatuates  ?  what  inchantment  plants 
The  phantom  of  an  age  'twixt  us,  and  death 
Already  at  the  door  ?     He  knocks,  we  hear  him. 
And  yet  we  will  not  hear.     What  mail  defends 
Our  untouch'd.  hearts  ?  what  miracle  turns  off 
The  pointed  thought,  which  from  a  thousand  quivers 
Is  daily  darted,  and  is  daily  shunn'd  ? 
We  stand,  as  in  a  battle,  throngs  on  throngs 
Around  us  falling  ;  wounded  oft  ourselves  ; 
Tho'  bleeding  with  our  wounds,  immortal  still ! 
We  see  time's  furrows  on  another's  brow, 


156  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  death  intrench'd,  preparing  his  assault ; 

How  few  themselves,  in  that  just  mirror  see  ! 

Or,  seeing,  draw  their  inference  as  strong ! 

There  death  is  certain ;  doubtful  here  :  he  must. 

And  soon ;  we  may,  within  an  age,  expire. 

Though  gray  our  heads,  our  thoughts  and  aims  are 

green ; 
Like  damag'd  clocks,  whose  hand  and  bell  dissent ; 
Folly  sings  six,' while  nature  points  at  twelve. 

Absurd  longevity !     More,  more,  it  cries : 
More  life,  more  wealth,  more  trash  of  every  kind. 
And  wherefore  mad  for  more,  when  relish  fails  ? 
Object,  and  appetite,  must  club  for  joy  ; 
Shall  folly  labor  hard  to  mend  the  bow. 
Baubles,  I  mean,  that  strike  us  from  without. 
While  nature  is  relaxing  ev'ry  string  ? 
Ask  thought  for  joy  ;  grow  rich  and  hoard  within. 
Think  you  the  soul,  when  this  life's  rattles  cease, 
Has  nothing  of  more  manly  to  succeed  ? 
Contract  the  taste  immortal ;  learn  ev'n  now 
To  relish  what  alone  subsists  hereafter. 
Divine  or  none,  henceforth  your  joys  forever. 


NIGHT     V.  157 


Of  age  the  glory  is,  to  wish  to  die. 
That  wish  is  praise  and  promise  ;  it  applauds 
Past  life,  and  promises  our  future  bliss. 
What  weakness  see  not  children  in  their  sires  ? 
Grand  climacterical  absurdities ! 
Gray-hair'd  authority,  to  faults  of  youth, 
How  shocking  !    It  makes  folly  thrice  a  fool ; 
And  our  first  childhood  might  our  last  despise. 
Peace  and  esteem  is  all  that  age  can  hope. 
Nothing  but  wisdom  gives  the  first ;  the  last, 
Nothing,  but  the  repute  of  being  wise. 
Folly  bars  both ;  our  age  is  quite  undone. 

What  folly  can  be  ranker  ?     Like  o\u'  shadows, 
Our  wishes  lenofthen,  as  our  sun  dechnes. 
No  wish  should  loiter  then,  this  side  the  grave. 
Our  hearts  should  leave  the  world,  before  the  knell 
Calls  for  our  carcases  to  mend  the  soil. 
Enough  to  live  in  tempest,  die  in  port ; 
Age  should  fly  concourse,  cover  in  retreat 
Defects  of  judgment ;  and  the  wills  subdue ; 
Walk  thouo^htful  on  the  silent,  solemn  shore 
Of  that  vast  ocean  it  must  sail  so  soon ; 


158  THE      COMPLAINT. 

And  put  good  works  on  board  ;  and  wait  the  wind 
That  shortly  blows  us  into  worlds  unknown ; 
If  unconsider'd  too,  a  dreadful  scene ! 

All  should  be  prophets  to  themselves ;  foresee 
Their  future  fate ;  their  future  fate  foretaste ; 
This  art  would  waste  the  bitterness  of  death. 
The  thought  of  death  alone  the  fear  destroys. 
A  disaffection  to  that  precious  thought 
Is  more  than  midnight  darkness  on  the  soul, 
Which  sleeps  beneath  it,  on  a  precipice, 
Puff  'd  ofiF  by  the  first  blast,  and  lost  forever. 

Dost  ask,  Lorenzo,  why  so  warmly  press'd. 
By  repetition  hammer'd  on  thine  ear, 
The  thought  of  death  ?     That  thought  is  the  machine, 
The  grand  machine !  that  heaves  us  from  the  dust, 
And  rears  us  into  men.     The  thought  plied  home 
Will  soon  reduce  the  ghastly  precipice 
O'er  hanging  hell,  will  soften  the  descent, 
And  gently  slope  our  passage  to  the  grave ; 
How  warmly  to  be  wish'd !     What  heart  of  flesh 
Would  trifle  with  tremendous  ?  dare  extremes  ? 
Yawn  o'er  the  fate  of  infinite  ?     What  hand. 


NIGHT     V.  159 


Beyond  the  blackest  brand  of  censure  bold, 
(To  speak  a  language  too  well  known  to  tbee) 
Would  at  a  moment  give  its  all  to  chance, 
And  stamp  the  die  for  an  eternity  ? 

Aid  me,  Narcissa !  aid  me  to  keep  pace 
With  destiny ;  and  ere  her  scissors  cut 
My  thread  of  life,  to  break  this  tougher  thread 
Of  moral  death,  that  ties  me  to  the  world. 
Sting  thou  my  slumb'ring  leason  to  send  forth 
A  thought  of  observation  on  the  foe ; 
To  sally  ;  and  survey  the  rapid  march 
Of  his  ten  thousand  messengers  to  man ; 
Who,  Jehu-like,  behind  him  turns  them  all. 
All  accident  apart,  by  nature  sign'd, 
My  warrant  is  gone  out,  tho'  dormant  yet ; 
Perhaps  behind  one  moment  lurks  my  fate. 

Must  I  then  forward  only  look  for  death  ? 
Backward  I  turn  mine  eye,  and  find  him  there. 
Man  is  a  self-survivor  ev'ry  year. 
Man,  like  a  stream,  is  in  perpetual  flow. 
Death  's  a  destroyer  of  quotidian  prey. 
My  youth,  my  noontide,  his  ;  my  yesterday ; 


160  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  bold  invader  shares  the  present  hour. 
Each  moment  on  the  former  shuts  the  grave. 
While  man  is  growing,  life  is  in  decrease ; 
And  cradles  rock  us  nearer  to  the  tomb. 
Our  birth  is  nothing  but  our  death  begun ; 
As  tapers  waste,  that  instant  they  take"  fire. 

Shall  we  then  fear,  lest  that  should  come  to  pass. 
Which  comes  to  pass  each  moment  of  our  lives  ? 
If  fear  we  must,  let  that  death  turn  us  pale. 
Which  murders  strength  and  ardor ;  what  remains 
Should  rather  call  on  death,  than  dread  his  call. 
Ye  partners  of  my  fault,  and  my  decline ! 
Thoughtless  of  death  but  when  your  neighbor's  knell 
(Rude  visitant)  knocks  hard  at  your  dull  sense, 
And  with  its  thunder  scarce  obtains  your  ear  ! 
Be  death  your  theme  in  ev'ry  place  and  hour ; 
Nor  longer  want,  ye  monumental  sires, 
A  brother-tomb  to  tell  you,  you  shall  die. 
That  death  you  dread,  (so  great  is  nature's  skill !) 
Know,  you  shall  court,  before  you  shall  enjoy. 

But  you  are  learn'd ;  in  volumes  deep  you  sit. 
In  wisdom  shallow  ;  pompous  ignorance  ! 


NIGHT     V.  161 


Would  you  be  still  more  learned  than  the  learn'd  ? 

Learn  well  to  know  how  much  need  not  be  known, 

And  what  that  knowledge  which  impairs  your  sense. 

Our  needful  knowledge,  like  our  needful  food. 

Unhedged,  lies  open  in  hfe's  common  field. 

And  bids  all  welcome  to  the  vital  feast. 

You  scorn  what  Hes  before  you  in  the  page 

Of  nature  and  experience,  moral  truth ! 

Of  indispensable,  eternal  fruit ! 

Fruit  on  which  mortals,  feeding,  turn  to  gods ; 

And  dive  in  science  for  distinguish'd  names,  I 

Dishonest  fomentation  of  your  pride. 

Sinking  in  virtue  as  you  rise  in  fame. 

Your  learning,  like  the  lunar  beam,  affords 

Light,  but  not  heat ;  it  leaves  you  undevout. 

Frozen  at  heart,  while  speculation  shines. 

Awake,  ye  curious  indagators,  fond 

Of  kn?hving  aU,  but  what  avails  you  known. 

If  you  would  learn  death's  character,  attend. 

All  casts  of  conduct,  all  degrees  of  health, 

All  dyes  of  fortune,  and  all  dates  of  age. 

Together  shook  in  his  impartial  um. 


162  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Come  forth  at  random  ;  or,  if  choice  is  made. 
The  choice  is  quite  sarcastic,  and  insults 
All  bold  conjecture  and  fond  hopes  of  man. 
What  countless  multitudes  not  only  leave, 
But  deeply  disappoint  us  by  their  deaths ! 
Though  great  our  sorrow,  greater  our  surprise. 

Like  other  tyrants,  death  delights  to  smite. 
What,  smitten,  most  proclaims  the  pride  of  pow'r 
And  arbitrary  nod.     His  joy  supreme, 
To  bid  the  wretch  survive  the  fortunate ; 
The  feeble  wrap  th'  athletic  in  his  shroud ; 
And  weeping  fathers  build  their  children's  tomb  : 
Me  thine,  Narcissa  ! — What  though  short  thy  date  ? 
Virtue,  not  rolling  suns,  the  mind  matures. 
That  Hfe  is  long  which  answers  life's  great  end. 
The  tree  that  bears  no  fruit  deserves  no  name. 
The  man  of  wisdom  is  the  man  of  years. 
In  hoary  youth  Methusalems  may  die  ;  • 

O  how  misdated  on  their  flattering  tombs  ! 

Narcissa's  youth  has  lectured  me  thus  far  : 
And  can  her  gayety  give  counsel  too  ? 
That,  like  the  Jews'  famed  oracle  of  gems. 


NIGHT     V.  163 


Sparkles  instruction ;  sueh  as  throws  new  light, 
And  opens  more  the  character  of  death, 
111  known  to  thee,  Lorenzo  !     This  thy  vaunt : 
**  Give  death  his  due,  the  wretched  and  the  old ; 
E'en  let  him  sweep  his  rubbish  to  the  grave ; 
Let  him  not  violate  kind  nature's  laws. 
But  own  man  born  to  live  as  well  as  die." 
Wretched  and  old  thou  giv'st  him :  young  and  gay 
He  takes  ;  and  plunder  is  a  tyrant's  joy. 
What  if  I  prove,  '*  The  farthest  from  the  fear 
Are  often  nearest  to  the  stroke  of  fate  ?" 

All  more  than  common,  menaces  an  end. 
A  blaze  betokens  brevity  of  life  : 
As  if  bright  embers  should  emit  a  flame, 
Glad  spirits  sparkled  from  Narcissa's  eye. 
And  made  youth  younger,  and  taught  life  to  live 
As  nature's  opposites  wage  endless  war. 
For  this  otFence,  as  treason  to  the  deep 
Inviolable  stupor  of  his  reign, 
Where  lust  and  turbulent  ambition  sleep. 
Death  took  swift  vengeance.     As  he  life  detests, 
More  life  is  still  more  odious  ;  and  reduced 


164  THE     COMPLAINT. 

By  conquest,  aggrandizes  more  his  pow'r. 
But  wherefore  aggrandiz'd  ?     By  heav'n's  decree, 
To  plant  the  soul  on  her  eternal  guard. 
In  awful  expectation  of  our  end. 
Thus  runs  death's  dread  commission,  *  Strike,  but  so 
As  most  alarms  the  living  by  the  dead.' 
Hence  stratagem  delights  him,  and  surprise. 
And  cruel  sport  with  man's  securities. 
Not  simple   conquest,  triumph  is  his  aim ; 
And  where  least  feared,  there  conquest  triumphs  most. 
This  proves  my  bold  assertion  not  too  bold. 
What  are  his  arts  to  lay  our  fears  asleep  ? 
Tiberian  arts  his  purposes  wrap  up 
In  deep  dissimulation's  darkest  night. 
Like  princes  unconfess'd  in  foreign  courts, 
Who  travel  under  cover,  death  assumes 
The  name  and  look  of  life,  and  dwells  among  us ; 
He  takes  all  shapes  that  serve  his  black  designs  ; 
Though  master  of  a  wider  empire  far 
Than  that  o'er  which  the  Roman  eagle  flew  : 
Like  Nero,  he's  a  fiddler,  charioteer ; 
Or  drives  his  phaeton  in  female  guise ; 


NIGHT     V.  1G5 


Quite  unsuspected;  till  the  wheel  beneath 
His  disarray 'd  oblation  he  devours. 

He  most  affects  the  forms  least  like  himself, 
His  slender  self :  hence  bui-ly  corpulence 
Is  his  familiar  wear,  and  sleek  diso-iiise. 
Behind  the  rosy  bloom  he  loves  to  lurk 
Or  ambush  in  a  smile  ;  or,  wanton,  dive 
In  dimples  deep  :  Love's  eddies,  which  draw  in 
Unwary  hearts,  and  sink  them  in  despair. 
Such  on  Narcissa's  couch  he  loiter'd  long 
Unknown,  and  when  detected,  still  was  seen 
To  smile  ;  such  peace  has  innocence  in  death  ! 

Most  happy  they  !  whom  least  his  arts  deceive. 
One  eye  on  death,  and  one  full  fix'd  on  heav'n. 
Becomes  a  mortal  and  immortal  man. 
Long  on  his  wiles  a  piqued  and  jealous  spy, 
I  've  seen,  or  dreamt  I  saw,  the  tyrant  dress. 
Lay  by  his  horrors,  and  put  on  his  smiles. 
Say,  muse,  for  thou  remember'st,  call  it  back. 
And  show  Lorenzo  the  surprising  scene ; 
If  'twas  a  dream,  his  genius  can  explain. 

'Twas  in  a  circle  of  the  gay  I  stood : 


166  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Death  would  have  enter'd  ;  Nature  push'd  him  back 

Supported  by  a  doctor  of  renown, 

His  point  ho  gain'd ;  then  artfully  dismiss'd 

The  sage,  for  death  design'd  to  be  conceal'd. 

He  gave  an  old  vivacious  usurer 

His  meagre  aspect,  and  his  naked  bones  ; 

In  gratitude  for  plumping  up  his  prey. 

A  pamper'd  spendthrift,  whose  fantastic  air, 

Well-fashion'd  figure,  and  cockaded  brow, 

He  took  in  change,  and  underneath  the  pride 

Of  costly  linen  tuck'd  his  filthy  shroud. 

His  crooked  bow  he  straighten'd  to  a  cane. 

And  hid  his  deadly  shaft  in  Myra's  eye. 

The  dreadful  masquerader,  thus  equipp'd, 
Outsallies  on  adventures.     Ask  you  where  ? 
Where  is  he  not  ?    For  his  peculiar  haunts 
Let  this  suffice  ;  sure  as  night  follows  day. 
Death  treads  in  Pleasure's  footsteps  round  the  world, 
When  Pleasure  treads  the  paths  which  Reason  shuns. 
When  against  Reason  Riot  shuts  the  door, 
And  Gayety  supplies  the  place  of  Sense, 
Then  foremost,  at  the  banquet  and  the  ball. 


NIGHT     V.  167 


Death  leads  the  dance,  or  stamps  the  deadly  die ; 
Nor  ever  fails  the  midnight  bowl  to  crown, 
Gayly  carousing  to  his  gay  compeers. 
Inly  he  laughs  to  see  them  laugh  at  him. 
As  absent  far  ;  and  when  the  revel  bums, 
When  fear  is  banish'd,  and  triumphant  Thought, 
Calling  for  all  the  joys  beneath  the  moon, 
Against  him  turns  the  key,  and  bids  him  sup 
With  their  progenitors — he  drops  his  mask ; 
Frowns  out  at  full ;  they  start,  despair,  expire. 

Scarce  with  more  sudden  terror  and  surprise, 
From  his  black  masque  of  nitre,  touch'd  by  fire. 
He  bursts,  expands,  roars,  blazes,  and  devours. 
And  is  not  this  triumphant  treachery. 
And  more  than  simple  conquest,  in  the  fiend  ? 

And  now,  Lorenzo,  dost  thou  wrap  thy  soul 
In  soft  security,  because  unknown 
Which  moment  is  commission'd  to  destroy  ? 
In  death's  uncertainty  thy  danger  lies. 
Is  death  uncertain  ?     Therefore  thou  be  fix'd  ; 
Fix'd  as  a  sentinel,  all  eye,  all  ear, 
All  expectation  of  the  coming  foe. 


1G8  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Rouse,  stand  in  arms,  nor  lean  against  thy  spear ; 

Lest  slumber  steal  one  moment  o'er  thy  soul. 

And  fate  surprise  thee  nodding.     Watch,  be  strong ; 

Thus  give  each  day  the  merit  and  renown. 

Of  dying  well ;  tho'  doom'd  but  once  to  die. 

Nor  let  life's  period  hidden  (as  from  most) 

Hide  too  from  thee  the  precious  use  of  life. 

Early,  not  sudden,  was  Narcissa's  fate. 
Soon,  not  surprising,  death  his  visit  paid. 
Her  thought  went  forth  to  meet  him  on  his  way, 
Nor  gayety  forgot  it  was  to  die. 
Tho'  fortune  too  (our  third  and  final  theme,) 
As  as  accomphce  play'd  her  gaudy  plumes. 
And  ev'ry  glittering  gewgaw,  on  her  sight. 
To  dazzle,  and  debauch  it  from  its  mark. 
Death's  dreadful  advent  is  the  mark  of  man ; 
And  ev'ry  thought  that  misses  it,  is  blind. 
Fortune,  with  youth  and  gayety,  conspir'd 
To  weave  a  triple  wreath  of  happiness, 
(If  happiness  on  earth)  to  crown  her  brow. 
And  could  death  charge  thro'  such  a  shining  shield  ? 

That  shining  shield  invites  the  tyrant's  spear. 


NIGHT     V.  169 


As  if  to  damp  our  elevated  aims, 

And  strongly  preach  humility  to  man. 

0  how  portentous  is  prosperity  ! 

How,  comet-like,  it  threatens,  while  it  shines ! 

I     Few  years  but  yield  us  proof  of  death's  ambition 

{     To  cull  his  victims  from  the  fairest  fold, 

i     And  sheath  his  shafts  in  all  the  pride  of  life. 

I 

!     When  flooded  with  abundance,  purpled  o'er 

With  recent  honors,  bloom'd  with  ev'ry  bliss. 

Set  up  in  ostentation,  made  the  gaze, 

The  gaudy  centre,  of  the  public  eye. 

When  fortune  thus  has  toss'd  her  child  in  air, 

Snatch'd  from  the  covert  of  an  humble  state, 

I     How  often  have  I  seen  him  dropp'd  at  once. 
Our  morning's  envy  !  and  our  ev'ning's  sigh  ! 

I  As  if  her  bounties  were  the  signal  given, 
The  flow'ry  wreath  to  mark  the  sacrifice, 
And  call  death's  arrows  on  the  destin'd  prey. 

High  fortune  seems  in  cruel  league  with  fate. 
Ask  you  for  what  ?     To  give  his  war  on  man 
The  deeper  dread,  and  more  illustrious  spoil ; 
Thus  to  keep  daring  mortals  more  in  awe. 


170  THE     COMTLAINT. 

And  burns  Lorenzo  still  for  the  sublime 
Of  life  ?  to  hang  his  airy  nest  on  high, 
On  the  slight  timber  of  the  topmost  bough, 
Rock'd  at  each  breeze,  and  menacing  a  fall ! 
Granting  grim  Death  at  equal  distance  there : 
Yet  peace  begins  just  where  ambition  ends. 
What  makes  man  wretch'd  ?     Happiness  denied  ? 
Lorenzo!  no:  'tis  Happiness  disdain'd. 
She  comes  too  meanly  dress'd  to  win  our  smile  ; 
And  calls  herself  Content,  a  homely  name ! 
Our  flame  is  Transport,  and  Content  our  scorn. 
Ambition  turns,  and  shuts  the  door  against  her, 
And  weds  a  toil,  a  tempest,  in  her  stead ; 
A  tempest  to  warm  Transport  near  of  kin. 
Unknowing  what  our  mortal  state  admits, 
Life's  modest  joys  we  ruin,  while  we  raise  ; 
And  all  our  ecstacies  are  wounds  to  peace. 
Peace,  the  full  portion  of  mankind  below. 

And  since  thy  peace  is  dear,  ambitious  youth ! 
Of  fortune  fond  !  as  thoughtless  of  thy  fate  ! 
As  late  I  drew  Death's  picture,  to  stir  up 
Thy  wholesome  fears ;  now,  drawn  in  contrast,  see 


J 


NIGHT     V.  iTl 


Gay  Fortune's,  thy  vain  hopes  to  reprimand. 
See,  high  in  air,  the  sportive  goddess  hangs. 
Unlocks  her  casket  spreads  her  ghtt'ring  ware, 
And  calls  the  gidd.y  winds  to  puflF  abroad 
Her  random  bounties  o'er  the  gaping  throng. 
All  rush  rapacious  ;  friends  o'er  trodden  friends  ; 
Sons  o'er  their  fathers,  subjects  o'er  their  kings. 
Priests  o'er  their  gods,  and  lovers  o'er  the  fair, 
(Still  more  ador'd)  to  snatch  the  golden  show'r. 

Gold  glitters  most,  where  virtue  shines  no  more ; 
As  stars  from  absent  suns  have  leave  to  shine. 
0  what  a  precious  pack  of  votaries 
Unkennell'd  from  the  prisons,  and  the  stews. 
Pour  in.  all  op'ning  in  their  idol's  praise  ! 
All,  ardent,  eye  each  wafture  of  her  hand. 
And,  wide  expanding  their  voracious  jaws. 
Morsel  on  morsel  swallow  down  unchew'd, 
Untasted,  through  mad  appetite  for  more ; 
Gorg'd  to  the  throat,  yet  lean  and  rav'nous  still. 
Sagacious  all,  to  trace  the  smallest  game. 
And  bold  to  seize  the  greatest.     If  (blest  chance !) 
Court-zephers  sweetly  breathe,  they  launch,  they  fly. 


1*72  THE     COMPLAINT. 

O'er  just,  o'er  sacred,  all  forbidden  ground, 
Drunk  with  the  burning  scent  of  place  or  pow'r, 
Staunch  to  the  foot  of  lucre,  till  they  die. 

Or,  if  for  men  you  take  them,  as  I  mark 
Their  manners,  thou  their  various  fates  survey. 
With  aim  mismeasur'd,  and  impetuous  speed. 
Some  darting,  strike  their  ardent  wish  far  off, 
I     Through  fury  to  possess  it :  some  succeed, 
!     But  stumble,  and  let  fall  the  taken  prize. 
I     From  some,  by  sudden  blasts,  'tis  whirl'd  away. 
I     And  lodg'd  in  bosoms  that  ne'er  dream'd  of  gain. 
!     To  some  it  sticks  so  close,  that,  when  torn  off 
I     Torn  is  the  man,  and  mortal  is  the  wound. 
I     Some,  o'er-enamour'd  of  their  bags,  run  mad, 
i     Groan  vmder  gold,  yet  weep  for  want  of  bread. 
Togetlier  some  (unhappy  rivals  !)  seize. 
And  rend  abundance  into  poverty  ; 
Loud  croaks  the  raven  of  the  law,  and  smiles  : 
Smiles  too  the  goddess ;  but  smiles  most  at  those, 
(Just  victims  of  exorbitant  desire  !) 
Who  perish  at  their  own  request,  and,  whelm'd 
Beneath  her  load  of  lavish  grants,  expire. 


NIGHT     V.  1V3 


Fortune  is  famous  for  her  numbers  slain. 

The  number  small,  which  happiness  can  bear. 

Tho'  various  for  awhile  their  fates  ;  at  last 

One  curse  involves  them  all :  at  death's  approach, 

All  read  their  riches  backward  into  loss, 

And  mourn,  in  just  proportion  to  their  store. 

And  death's  approach,  (if  orthodox  my  song) 
Is  hasten'd  by  the  lure  of  fortune's  smiles. 
And  art  thou  still  a  glutton  of  bright  gold  ? 
And  art  thou  still  rapacious  of  thy  ruin  ? 
Death  loves  a  shining  mark,  a  signal  blow ; 
A  blow,  which,  while  it  executes,  alarms ; 
And  startles  thousands,  with  a  single  fall. 
As  when  some  stately  growth  of  oak,  or  pine, 
Which  nod?  aloft,  and  proudly  spreads  her  shade, 
The  sun's  defiance,  and  the  flock's  defence  ; 
By  the  strong  strokes  of  lab'ring  hinds  subdu'd. 
Loud  groans  her  last,  and,  rushing  from  her  height 
In  cumb'rous  ruin,  thunders  to  the  ground : 
The  conscious  forest  trembles  at  the  shock. 
And  hill,  and  stream,  and  distant  dale,  resound. 

These  high-aim'd  darts  of  death,  and  these  alone, 


1*74  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Should  I  collect,  my  quiver  would  be  full. 

A  quiver,  which,  suspended  in  mid  air. 

Or  near  heav'n's  archer,  in  the  zodiac,  hung, 

(So  could  it  be)  should  draw  the  public  eye. 

The  gaze  and  contemplation  of  mankind ! 

A  constellation  awful,  yet  benign, 

To  guide  the  gay  thro'  life's  tempestuous  wave ; 

Nor  suffer  them  to  strike  the  common  rock, 

"  From  greater  danger  to  grow  more  secure. 

And,  wrapt  in  happiness,  forget  their  fate.'* 

Lysander,  happy  past  the  common  lot. 
Was  warn'd  a  danger,  but  too  gay  to  fear. 
He  woo'd  the  fair  Aspasia  :  she  was  kind : 
In    youth,    form,    fortune,    fame,    they    both   were 

bless'd, 
All  who  knew,  envied ;  yet  in  envy  lov'd : 
Can  fancy  form  more  finish'd  happiness  ? 
Fix'd  was  the  nuptial  hour.     Her  stately  dome 
Rose  on  the  sounding  beach.     The  glitt'ring  spires 
Float  in  the  wave,  and  break  against  the  shore : 
So  break  those  glitt'ring  shadows,  human  joys. 
The  faithless  morning  smil'd  :  he  takes  his  leave. 


NIGHT     V.  iTS 


To  re-embrace  in  ecstacies,  at  eve. 

The  rising  storm  forbids.     The  news  arrives  : 

Untold,  she  saw  it  in  her  servant's  eye. 

She  felt  it  seen  (her  heart  was  apt  to  feel) ; 

And,  drown'd,  without  the  furious  ocean's  aid. 

In  suffocating  sorrows,  shares  his  tomb. 

Now,  round  the  sumptuous,  bridal  monument, 

The  guilty  billows  innocently  roar ; 

And  the  rough  sailor,  passing,  drops  a  tear. 

A  tear  ? — can  tears  suffice  ? — But  not  for  me. 

How  vain  our  efforts  !     And  our  arts,  how  vain ! 

The  distant  train  of  thought  I  took,  to  shun. 

Has  thrown  me  on  my  fate. — These  died  together ; 

Happy  in  ruin !  undivorc'd  by  death  ! 

Or  ne'er  to  meet,  or  ne'er  to  part,  is  peace. — 

Narcissa !  pity  bleeds  at  thought  of  thee. 

Yet  thou  wast  only  near  me  ;  not  myself. 

Survive  myself?  that  cures  all  other  woe. 

Narcissa  lives  !  Philander  is  forgot. 

0  the  soft  commerce  !     0  the  tender  ties. 

Close-twisted  with  the  fibres  of  the  heart ! 


176  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Which  broken,  break  thera  ;  and  drain  oflf  the  soul 
Of  human  joy ;  and  make  it  pain  to  live. — 
And  is  it  then  to  live  ?     When  such  friends  part, 
'Tis  the  survivor  dies. — My  heart !  no  more. 


NIGHT  VI. 

THE  INFIDEL  RECLAIMED. 

IN  TWO  PARTS. 

CONTAINING-    THE    NATURE,    PROOF,    AND    IMPORTANCE    OF 
IMMORTALITY. 


PREFACE. 

Fbw  ages  have  been  deeper  in  dispute  about  religion  than 
this.  The  dispute  about  religion,  and  the  practice  of  it,  seldom  go 
together.  The  shorter,  therefore,  the  dispute,  the  better.  I  think 
it  may  be  reduced  to  this  single  question.  Is  man  immortal,  or  is 
he  not  1  If  he  is  not,  all  our  disputes  are  mere  amusements,  or 
trials  of  skill.  In  this  case,  truth,  reason,  religion,  which  give 
our  discourses  such  pomp  and  solemnity,  are  (as  will  be  shown) 
mere  empty  sounds,  without  any  meaning  in  them.  But  if  man 
is  immortal,  it  will  behoove  him  to  be  very  serious  about  eternal 
consequences ;  or,  in  other  words,  to  be  truly  religious.  And  this 
great  fundamental  truth,  unestablished  or  unawakened  in  the 
minds  of  men,  is.  I  conceive,  the  real  source  and  support  of  all 
our  infideUty ;  how  remote  soever  the  particular  objections  ad- 
vanced may  seem  to  be  from  it. 


178  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Sensible  appearances  affect  most  men  much  more  than  abstract 
reasonings ;  and  we  daily  see  bodies  drop  around  us^  but  the  scul 
is  invisible.  The  power  which  inclination  has  over  '.he  :vLig- 
ment  is  greater  than  can  be  well  conceived  by  those  that  have 
not  had  an  experience  of  it;  and  of  what  numbers  is  it  the  sad 
interest  that  souls  should  not  survive  !  The  heathen  world  con- 
fessed that  they  rather  hoped  than  firmly  believed  immortality ; 
and  how  many  heathens  have  we  still  amongst  us  !  The  sacred 
page  assures  us,  that  life  and  immortality  is  brought  to  light  by 
the  gospel:  but  by  how  many  is  the  gospel  rejected,  or  over- 
looked !  From  these  considerations,  and  from  my  being,  acci- 
dentally, privy  to  the  sentiments  of  some  particular  persons,  I 
have  been  long  persuaded  that  most,  if  not  all  our  infidels, 
(whatever  name  they  take,  and  whatever  scheme,  for  argument's 
cake,  and  to  keep  themselves  in  countenance,  they  patronize)  are 
supported  in  their  deplorable  error  by  some  doubt  of  their  tjn- 
mortality,  at  the  bottom.  And  I  am  satisfied  that  men  once 
thoroughly  convinced  of  their  immortality  are  not  fur  from  being 
Christians.  For  it  is  hard  to  conceive  that  a  man  fully  conscious 
eternal  pain  or  happiness  will  certainly  be  his  lot.  should  not 
earnestly,  and  impartially,  inquire  after  the  surest  means  of  es- 
caping the  one,  and  securing  the  other.  And  of  such  an  earnest 
and  impartial  inquiry,  I  well  know  the  consequence. 

Here,  therefore,  in  proof  of  this  most  fundamental  truth,  some 
plain  arguments  are  off'ered — arguments  derived  from  principles 
which  infidels  admit  in  common  with  believers — arguments 
which  appear  to  me  altogether  irresistible ;  and  such  as  I  am 
satisfied  will  have  great  weight  with  all  who  give  themselves  the 


NIGHT     VI  .  1T9 


small  trouble  of  looking  seriously  into  their  o  9vn  bosoms,  and  of 
observing,  with  any  tolerable  degree  of  attention,  what  daily 
passes,  round  about  them,  in  the  world.  If  some  arguments 
shall,  here,  occur  which  others  have  declined,  they  are  submitted, 
with  all  deference,  to  better  judgments  in  this,  of  all  points,  the 
most  important.  For,  as  to  the  being  of  a  God,  that  is  no  longer 
disputed ;  but  it  is  undisputed,  for  this  reason  only,  viz.,  because 
where  the  least  pretence  to  reason  is  admitted,  it  must  forever  !>8 
indisputable.  And  of  consequence  no  man  can  be  betrayed 
into  a  dispute  of  that  nature  by  vanity ;  which  has  a  principal 
share  in  animating  our  modern  combatants  against  other  articles 
of  our  belief. 


PART   THE  FIRST. 

WHERE,  AMONG  OTHER  THINGS,  GLORY  AND  RICHES  ARE 
PARTICULARLY  CONSIDERED. 

TO    THE    RIGHT    HONORABLE    HENRY    PELHAM, 

FIRST    LORD    COMMISSIONER    OF   THE    TREASURY,   AND    CHANCELLOR    OF 
THE    EXCHEQUER. 

She*  (for  T  know  not  yet  her  name  in  heaven) 
Nor  early,  like  Karcissa,  left  the  scene ; 
Nor  sudden,  like  Philander.     What  avail  ? 
This  seeming  mitigation  but  inflames  ; 
This  fancied  med'cine  heightens  the  disease. 
The  longer  known,  the  closer  still  she  grew ; 
And  gradual  parting  is  a  gradual  death. 
'Tis  the  grim  tyrant's  engine,  which  extorts 
By  tardy  pressure's  still-increasing  weight, 
From  hardest  hearts,  confession  of  distress. 

0  the  long,  dark  approach  thro'  years  of  pain, 
Death's  gall'ry !  (might  I  dare  to  call  it  so) 

*  Referring  to  Night  the  Fifth. 


NIGHT     VI.  181 


With  dismal  doubt,  and  sable  terror,  hung ; 

Sick  hope's  pale  lamp,  its  only  glimm'ring  ray : 

There  fate  my  melancholy  walk  ordaiu'd, 

Forbid  self-love  itself  to  flatter,  there. 

How  oft  I  gaz'd,  prophetically  sad ! 

How  oft  I  saw  her  dead,  while  yet  in  smiles ! 

In  smiles  she  sunk  her  grief,  to  lessen  mine. 

She  spoke  me  comfort,  and  increas'd  my  pain. 

Like  pow'rful  armies  trenching  at  a  town. 

By  slow,  and  silent,  but  resistless  sap. 

In  his  pale  progress  gently  gaining  ground. 

Death  urg'd  his  deadly  siege ;  in  spite  of  art. 

Of  all  the  balmy  blessings  nature  lends 

To  succor  frail  humanity.     Ye  stars  ! 

(Not  now  first  made  familiar  to  my  sight) 

And  thou,  0  moon  !  bear  witness  ;  many  a  night 

He  tore  the  pillow  from  beneath  my  head. 

Tied  down  my  sore  attention  to  the  shock, 

By  ceaseless  depredations  on  a  life 

Dearer  than  that  he  left  me.     Dreadful  post 

Of  observation  !  darker  ev'ry  hour ! 

Less  dread  the  day  that  drove  me  to  the  brink, 


182  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  pointed  at  eternity  below ; 
When  my  soul  shudder'd  at  futurity ; 
When,  on  a  moment's  point,  th'  important  dye 
Of  life  and  death  spun  doubtful,  ere  it  fell, 
And  turn'd  up  life  ;  my  title  to  more  woe. 

But  why  more  woe  ?     More  comfort  let  it  be. 
Nothing  is  dead,  but  that  which  wish'd  to  die ; 
Nothing  is  dead,  but  wretchedness  and  pain  ; 
Nothing  is  dead,  but  what  incumber'd,  gall'd, 
Block'd  up  the  pass,  and  barr'd  from  real  life. 
Where  dwells  that  wish  most  ardent  of  the  wise ! 
Too  dark  the  sun  to  see  it ;  highest  stars 
Too  low  to  reach  it ;  death,  great  death  alone. 
O'er  stars  and  sun  triumphant,  land  us  there. 

Nor  dreadful  our  transition ;  tho'  the  mind, 
An  artist  at  creating  self-alarms. 
Rich  in  expedients  for  inquietude. 
Is  prone  to  paint  it  dreadful.     Who  can  take 
Death's  portrait  true  ?     The  tyrant  never  sat. 
Our  sketch,  all  random  strokes,  conjecture  all ; 
Close  shuts  the  grave,  nor  tells  one  single  tale. 
Death,  and  his  image  rising  in  the  brain, 


NIGHT     VI.  183 


Bear  faint  resemblance ;  never  are  alike ; 
Fear  shakes  the  pencil,  Fancy  loves  excess. 
Dark  ignorance  is  lavish  of  her  shades  ; 
And  these  the  formidable  picture  draw. 

But  grant  the  worst ;  'tis  past ;  new  prospects  rise 
And  drop  a  veil  eternal  o'er  her  tomb. 
Far  other  views  our  contemplation  claim, 
Views  that  o'erpay  the  rigors  of  our  life ; 
Views  that  suspend  our  agonies  in  death. 
Wrapt  in  the  thought  of  immortality. 
Wrapt  in  the  single,  the  triumphant  thought ! 
Long  life  might  lapse,  age  unperceiv'd  come  on ; 
And  find  the  soul  unsated  with  her  theme. 
Its  nature,  proof,  importance,  fire  my  song. 
0  that  my  song  could  emulate  my  soul ! 
Like  her,  immortal.     No  ! — the  soul  disdains 
A  mark  so  mean  ;  far  nobler  hope  inflames  ; 
If  endless  ages  can  outweigh  an  hour. 
Let  not  the  laurel,  but  the  palm,  inspire. 

Thy  nature,  immortality  !  who  knows  ? 
And  yet  who  knows  it  not  ?     It  is  but  life 
In  stronger  thread  of  brighter  color  spun. 


184  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  spun  forever ;  dipp'd  by  cruel  fate 

In  Stygian  dye,  how  black,  how  brittle  here ! 

How  short  our  correspondence  with  the  sun  ! 

And  while  it  lasts,  inglorious  !  our  best  deeds, 

How"  wanting  in  their  weight !  our  highest  joys 

Small  cordials  no  support  us  in  our  pain. 

And  give  us  strength  to  suffer.     But  how  great 

To  mingle  int'rests,  converse,  amities, 

With  all  the  sons  of  reason,  scatter'd  wide 

Through  habitable  space,  wherever  born, 

Howe'er  endow'd  !  to  live  free  citizens 

Of  universal  nature  !  to  lay  hold 

By  more  than  feeble  faith  on  the  Supreme ! 

To  call  heav'n's  rich  unfathomable  minei 

(Mines,  which  support  archangels  in  their  state) 

Our  own !  to  rise  in  science,  as  in  bhss, 

Initiate  in  the  secrets  of  the  skies  ! 

To  read  creation ;  read  its  mighty  plan 

In  the  bare  bosom  of  the  Deity ! 

The  plan,  and  execution,  to  collate ! 

To  see,  before  each  glance  of  piercing  thought, 

All  cloud,  all  shadow,  blown  remote ;  and  leave 


NIGHT     VI.  185 


No  mystery — but  that  of  love  divine, 

Which  hfts  us  on  the  seraph's  flaming  wing, 

From  earth's  Aceldama,  this  field  of  blood. 

Of  inward  anguish,  and  of  outward  ill, 

F)om  darkness,  and  from  dust,  to  such  a  scene ! 

love's  element !  true  joy's  illustrious  home  ! 

From  earth's  sad  contrast  (now  deplor'd)  more  fair  ! 

What  exquisite  vicissitude  of  fate  ! 

Blest  absolution  of  our  blackest  hour ! 

Lorenzo,  these  are  thoughts  that  make  man,  man, 
The  wise  illumine,  aggrandize  the  great. 
How  great  (while  yet  we  tread  the  kindred  clod, 
And  ev'ry  moment  fear  to  sink  beneath 
The  clod  we  tread  ;  soon  trodden  by  our  sons) 
How  great,  in  the  wild  whirl  of  time's  pursuits 
To  stop,  and  pause,  involv'd  in  high  presage, 
Through  the  long  vista  of  a  thousand  years. 
To  stand  contemplating  our  distant  selves, 
As  in  a  magnifying  mirror  seen, 
Enlarg'd,  ennobled,  elevate,  divine ! 
To  prophesy  our  own  futurities  ! 
To  gaze  in  thought  on  what  all  thought  transcends  ! 


186  THE     COMPLAINT. 

To  talk,  with  fellow-candidates,  of  joys 
As  far  beyond  conception,  as  desert, 
Ourselves  th*  astonish'd  talkers,  and  the  tale  ! 
Lorenzo,  swells  thy  bosom  at  the  thought  ? 
The  swell  becomes  thee :  'tis  an  honest  pride. 
Revere  thyself ; — and  yet  thyself  despise. 
His  nature  no  man  can  o'errate  ;  and  none 
Can  underrate  his  merit.     Take  good  heed, 
Nor  there  be  modest,  where  thou  shouldst  be  proud ; 
That  almost  universal  error  shun. 
How  just  our  pride,  when  we  behold  those  heights ! 
Kot  those  ambition  paints  in  air,  but  those 
Reason  points  out,  and  ardent  virtue  gains ; 
And  angels  emulate  ;  our  pride  how  just ! 
When  mount  we  ?    when  these  shackles  cast  ?   when 

quit 
This  cell  of  the  creation  ?  this  small  nest, 
Stuck  in  a  corner  of  the  universe, 
Wrapp'd  up  in  fleecy  cloud,  and  fine-spun  air  ? 
Fine-spun  to  sense ;  but  gross  and  feculent 
To  souls  celestial;  souls  ordain'dto  breathe   . 
Ambrosial  gales,  and  drink  a  purer  sky ; 


NIGHT     VI.  187 


Greatly  triumphant  on  time's  farther  shore. 
Where  virtue  reigns,  enrich'd  with  full  arrears ; 
While  pomp  imperial  begs  an  alms  of  peace. 

In  empire  high,  or  in  proud  science  deep, 
Ye  born  of  earth  !  on  what  can  you  confer. 
With  half  the  dignity,  with  half  the  gain, 
The  gust,  the  glow  of  rational  delight. 
As  on  this  theme,  which  angels  praise,  and  share  ? 
Man's  fates  and  favors  are  a  theme  in  heaven. 

What  wretched  repetition  cloys  us  here ! 
What  periodic  potions  for  the  sick ! 
Distemper'd  bodies  !  and  distemper'd  minds ! 
In  an  eternity,  what  scenes  shall  strike  ! 
Adventures  thicken !  novelties  surprise  ! 
What  webs  of  wonder  shall  unravel  there  ! 
What  full  day  pour  on  all  the  paths  of  heaven. 
And  light  th'  Almighty's  footsteps  in  the  deep ! 
How  shall  the  blessed  day  of  our  discharge 
Unwind,  at  once,  the  labyrinths  of  fate, 
And  straighten  its  inextricable  maze ! 

If  inextinguishable  thirst  in  man 
To  know ;  how  rich,  how  full,  our  banquet  here ! 


188  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Here,  not  the  moral  world  alone  unfolds ; 
The  world  material,  lately  seen  in  shades, 
And,  in  those  shades,  by  fragments  only  seen. 
And  seen  those  fragments  by  the  lab'ring  eye, 
Unbroken,  now,  illustrious,  and  entire. 
Its  ample  sphere,  its  universal  frame, 
In  full  dimensions,  swells  to  the  survey  ; 
And  enters,  at  one  glance,  the  ravish'd  sight. 
From  some  superior  point  (where,  who  can  tell  ? 
Suffice  it,  'tis  a  point  where  gods  reside) 
How  shall  the  stranger  man's  illumin'd  eye, 
In  the  vast  ocean  of  unbounded  space. 
Behold  an  infinite  of  floating  worlds 
Divide  the  crystal  waves  of  ether  pure, 
In  endless  voyage,  without  port  ?     The  least 
Of  these  disseminated  orbs,  how  great? 
Great  as  they  are,  what  numbers  these  surpass, 
Hus^e,  as  leviathan,  to  that  small  race. 
Those  twinkling  multitudes  of  Httle  life. 
He  swallows  unperceiv'd  !  stupendous  these  ! 
Yet  what  are  these  stupendous  to  the  whole  ? 
As  particles,  as  atoms,  ill-perceiv'd ; 


NIGHT     VI.  189 


As  circulating  globules  in  our  veins ; 
So  vast  the  plan  :  fecundity  divine  ! 
Exub'rant  source !  perhaps,  I  wrong  thee  still. 

If  admiration  is  a  source  of  joy, 
What  transport  hence  ?  yet  this  the  least  in  heaven. 
What  this  to  that  illustrious  robe  he  wears 
Who  toss'd  this  mass  of  wonders  from  his  hand, 
A  specimen,  an  earnest,  of  his  power  ? 
'Tis,  to  that  glory,  whence  all  glory  flows. 
As  the  mead's  meanest  flow'ret  to  the  sun, 
Which  gave  it  birth.     But  what  this  sun  of  heaveu  ? 
This  bliss  supreme  of  the  supremely  bless'd  ? 
Death,  only  death,  the  question  can  resolve, 
By  death  cheap  bought  th'  ideas  of  our  joy ; 
The  bare  ideas  !  solid  happiness 
So  distant  from  its  shadow  chas'd  below. 

And  chase  we  still  the  phantom  thro'  the  fire, . 
O'er  bog,  and  brake,  and  precipice,  till  death  ? 
And  toil  we  still  for  sublunary  pay  ? 
Defy  the  dangers  of  the  field,  and  flood, 
Or,  spider-like,  spin  out  our  precious  all, 
Our  more  than  vitals  spin  (if  no  regard 


190  THE     COMPLAINT. 

To  great  futurity)  in  curious  webs 

Of  subtle  thought,  and  exquisite  design ; 

(Fine  network  of  the  brain !)  to  catch  a  fly  ! 

The  momentary  buz  of  vain  renown ! 

A  name,  a  mortal  immortahty  ! 

Or  (meaner  still)  instead  of  grasping  air, 
For  sordid  lucre  plunge  we  in  the  mire  ? 
Drudge,  sweat,  thro'  ev'ry  shame,  for  ev'ry  gain. 
For  vile  contaminating  trash  ;  throw  up 
Our  hope  in  heav'n,  our  dignity  with  man  ? 
And  deify  the  dirt,  matur'd  to  gold  ? 
Ambition,  av'rice ;  the  two  demons,  these 
Wliich  goad  thro'  every  slough  our  human  herd, 
Hard-travel'd  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave. 
How  low  the  wretches  stoop  !  how  steep  they  climb ! 
These  demons  burn  mankind  ;  but  most  possess 
Lorenzo's  bosom,  and  turn  out  the  skies. 

Is  it  in  time  to  hide  eternity  ? 
And  why  not  in  an  atom  on  the  shore, 
To  cover  ocean  ?  or  a  mote,  the  sun  ? 
Glory  and  wealth  !  have  they  this  blinding  power  ? 
What  if  to  them  I  prove  Lorenzo  blind  ? 


NIGHT     VI,  191 


AVould  it  surprise  thee  ?  be  thou  then  surpris'd  ; 
Thou  neither  know'st :  their  nature  learn  from  me. 

Mark  well,  as  foreign  as  these  subjects  seem, 
What  close  connection  ties  them  to  my  theme. 
First,  what  is  true  ambition  ?  the  pursuit 
Of  glory,  nothing  less  than  man  can  share. 
Were  they  as  vain  as  gaudy-minded  man, 
As  flatulent  with  fumes  of  self-applause, 
Their  arts  and  conquests  animals  might  boast, 
And  claim  their  laurel  crowns,  as  well  as  we ; 
But  not  celestial.     Here  we  stand  alone ; 
As  in  our  form,  distinct,  pre-eminent ; 
If  prone  in  thought,  our  stature  is  our  shame. 
And  man  should  blush,  his  forehead  meets  the  skies. 
The  visible  and  present  are  for  brutes, 
A  slender  portion  !  and  a  narrow  bound  ! 
These  reason,  with  an  energy  divine, 
O'erleaps  ;  and  claims  the  future  and  unseen ; 
The  vast  unseen  !  the  future  fathomless  ! 
When  the  great  soul  buoys  up  to  this  high  point, 
Leaving  gross  nature's  sediments  below, 
Then,  and  then  only,  Adam's  offspring  quits 


192  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  sage  and  hero  of  the  fields  and  woods^ 
Asserts  his  rank,  and  rises  into  Man. 
This  is  ambition  :  this  is  human  fire. 

Can  parts  or  place  (two  bold  pretenders !)  make 
Lorenzo  great,  and  pluck  him  from  the  throng  ? 

Genius  and  art,  ambition's  boasted  wings, 
Our  boast  but  ill  deserve.     A  feeble  aid  ! 
Dedalian  engin'ry !  if  these  alone 
Assist  our  flight,  fame's  flight  is  glory's  fall. 
Heart-merit  wanting,  mount  we  ne'er  so  high. 
Our  height  is  but  the  gibbet  of  our  name. 
A  celebrated  wretch  when  I  behold. 
When  I  behold  a  genius  bright,  and  base. 
Of  tow'ring  talents,  and  terrestial  aims ; 
Methinks  I  see,  as  thrown  from  her  high  sphere, 
The  glorious  fragment  of  a  soul  immortal. 
With  rubbish  mix'd,  and  glittering  in  the  dust. 
Struck  at  the  splendid,  melancholy  sight, 
At  once  compassion  soft,  and  envy,  rise — 
But  wherefore  envy  ?     Talents  angel-bright. 
If  wanting  worth,  are  shining  instruments 


NIGHT     VI.  ]93 


In  false  ambition's  hand,  to  finish  faults 
Illustrious,  and  give  infamy  renown. 

Great  ill  is  an  achievement  of  great  powers. 
Plain  sense  but  rarely  leads  us  far  astray. 
Reason  the  means,  affections  choose  our  end ; 
Means  have  no  merit,  if  our  end  amiss. 
If  wrong  our  hearts,  our  heads  are  right  in  vain ; 
What  is  a  Pelham's  head,  to  Pelham's  heart  ? 
Hearts  are  proprietors  of  all  applause. 
Right  ends,  and  means,  make  wisdom  :  worldly-wise 
It  but  half-witted,  at  its  highest  praise. , 

Let  genius  then  despair  to  make  thee  great ; 
Nor  flatter  station :  what  is  station  high  ? 
'Tis  a  proud  mendicant ;  it  boasts,  and  begs ;    * 
It  begs  an  alms  of  homage  from  the  throng, 
And  oft  the  throng  denies  its  charity, 
Monarchs,  and  ministers,  are  awful  names ; 
Whoever  wear  them,  challenge  our  devoir. 
Religion,  pubhc  order,  both  exact 
External  homage,  and  a  supple  knee. 
To  beings  pompously  set  up,  to  serve 
The  meanest  slave ;  all  more  is  merit's  due, 


194  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Her  sacred  and  inviolable  right 

Nor  ever  paid  the  monarch,  but  the  man. 

Our  hearts  ne'er  bow  but  to  superior  worth  ; 

Nor  ever  fail  of  their  allegiance  there. 

Fools,  indeed,  drop  the  man  in  their  account. 

And  vote  the  mantle  into  majesty. 

Let  the  small  savage  boast  his  silver  fur ; 

His  royal  robe  unborrow'd,  and  unbought, 

His  own,  descending  fairly  from  his  sires. 

Shall  man  be  proud  to  wear  his  livery, 

And  souls  in  ermine  scorn  a  soul  without  ? 

Can  place,  or  lessen  us,  or  aggrandize  ? 

Pigmies  are  pigmies  still,  though  perch'd  on  Alps ; 

And  pyramids  are  pyramids  in  vales. 

Each  man  makes  his  own  statue,  builds  himself : 

Virtue  alone  out-builds  the  pyramids  ; 

Her  monuments  shall  last,  when  Egypt's  fall. 

Of  these  sure  truths  dost  thou  demand  the  cause  ? 
The  cause  is  lodg'd  in  immortality  ; 
Hear,  and  assent.     Thy  bosom  burns  for  power ; 
What  station  charms  thee  ?  I  '11  install  thee  there  ; 
'Tis  thine.     And  art  thou  greater  than  before  ? 


NIGHT     VI  .  195 


Then  thou  before  wast  something  less  than  man. 

Has  thy  new  post  betray 'd  thee  into  pride  ? 

That  treach'rous  pride  betrays  thy  dignity ; 

That  pride  defames  humanity,  and  calls 

The  being  mean,  which  staffs  or  strings  can  raise. 

That  pride,  like  hooded  hawks,  in  darkness  soars, 

From  blindness  bold,  and  tow'ring  to  the  skies. 

'Tis  born  of  ignorance,  which  knows  not  man 

An  angel's  second ;  nor  his  second  long. 

A  Nero  quitting  his  imperial  throne. 

And  courting  glory  from  the  tinkling  string, 

But  faintly  shadows  an  immortal  soul. 

With  empire's  self,  to  pride,  or  rapture,  fir'd. 

If  nobler  motives  minister  no  cure, 

Ev'n  vanity  forbids  thee  to  be  vain. 

High  worth  is  elevated  place  :  'tis  more ; 
It  makes  the  post  stand  candidate  for  thee ; 
Makes  more  than  monarchs,  makes  an  honest  man ; 
Tho'  no  exchequer  it  commands,  'tis  wealth  ; 
And  tho'  it  wears  no  ribbon,  'tis  renown  ; 
Renown,  that  would  not  quit  thee,  tho'  disgraced, 
Nor  leave  thee  pendent  on  a  master's  -smile. 


196  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Other  ambition  nature  interdicts  ; 

Nature  proclaims  it  most  absurd  in  man, 

By  pointing  at  his  origin,  and  end  ; 

Milk,  and  a  swathe,  at  first,  his  whole  demand  ; 

His  whole  domain,  at  last,  a  turf,  or  stone : 

To  whom,  between,  a  world  may  seem  too  small. 

Souls  truly  great  dart  forward  on  the  wing 
Of  just  ambition,  to  the  grand  result, 
The  curtain's  fall ;  there,  see  the  buskin'd  chief 
Unshod  behind  this  momentary  scene  ; 
Reduced  to  his  own  stature,  low  or  high. 
As  vice,  or  virtue,  sinks  him,  or  sublimes ; 
And  laugh  at  this  fantastic  mummery, 
This  antic  prelude  of  grotesque  events. 
Where  dwarfs  are  often  stilted,  and  betray 
A  littleness  of  soul  by  worlds  o'errun, 
And  nations  laid  in  blood.     Dread  sacrifice 
To  Christian  pride !  which  had  with  horror  shock'd 
The  darkest  pagans,  offer'd  to  their  gods. 

0  thou  most  Christian  enemy  to  peace ! 
Again  in  arms  ?  again  provoking  fate  ? 
That  prince,  and  that  alone,  is  truly  great, 


NIGHT     VI.  197 


Who  draws  the  sword  reluctant,  gladly  sheaths; 
On  empire  builds  what  empire  far  outweighs, 
And  makes  his  throne  a  scaffold  to  the  skies. 

Why  this  so  rare  ?  because  forgot  of  all 
The  day  of  death  ;  that  venerable  day. 
Which  sits  as  judge ;  that  day,  which  shall  pronounce 
On  all  our  days,  absolve  them,  or  condemn. 
Lorenzo,  never  shut  thy  thought  against  it ; 
Be  levees  ne'er  so  full,  afford  it  room. 
And  give  it  audience  in  the  cabinet. 
That  friend  consulted,  flatteries  apart, 
Will  tell  thee  fair,  if  thou  are  great,  or  mean. 

To  doat  on  aught  may  leave  us,  or  be  left, 
Is  that  ambition  ?  then  let  flames  descend, 
Point  to  the  centre  their  inverted  spires. 
And  learn  humiliation  from  a  soul. 
Which  boasts  her  lineage  from  celestial  fire. 
Yet  these  are  they,  the  world  pronounces  wise. 
The  world,  which  cancels  nature's  right  and  wrong, 
And  casts  new  wisdom :  ev'n  the  grave  man  lends 
His  solemn  face,  to  countenance  the  coin. 
Wisdom  for  parts  is  madness  for  the  whole. 


198  THE     COMPLAINT. 

This  stamps  the  paradox,  and  gives  us  leave 

To  call  the  wisest  weak,  the  richest  poor, 

The  most  ambitious,  unambitious,  mean ; 

In  triumph,  mean;  and  abject  on  a  throne. 

Nothing  can  make  it  less  than  mad  in  man, 

To  put  forth  all  his  ardor,  ail  his  art, 

And  give  his  soul  her  full  unbounded  flight. 

But  reaching  Him,  who  gave  her  wings  to  fly. 

When  blind  ambition  quite  mistakes  her  road. 

And  downward  pores,  for  that  which  shines  above, 

Substantial  happiness,  and  true  renown ; 

Then,  like  an  idiot  gazing  on  the  brook. 

We  leap  at  stars,  and  fasten  in  the  mud ; 

At  glory  grasp,  and  sink  in  infamy. 

Ambition  !  pow'rful  source  of  good  and  ill ! 
Thy  strength  in  man,  like  length  of  wing  in  birds, 
When  disengag'd  from  earth,  with  greater  ease. 
And  swifter  flight,  transports  us  to  the  skies  : 
By  toys  entangled,  or  in  guilt  bemir'd, 
It  turns  a  curse ;  it  is  our  chain,  and  scourge. 
In  this  dark  dungeon,  where  confin'd  we  lie. 
Close-grated  by  the  sordid  bars  of  sense ; 


NTGHT     VI.  199 


All  prospect  of  eternity  shut  out ;         ^ 
And,  but  for  execution,  ne'er  set  free. 

With  error  in  ambition  justly  charged. 
Find  we  Lorenzo  wiser  in  his  wealth  ? 
What  if  thy  rental  I  reform  ?  and  draw 
j     An  inventory  new  to  set.  thee  right  ? 

Where,  thy  true  treasure  ?  gold  says,  "Not  in  me,' 
And,  "  Not  in  me,"  tne  di'mond.     Gold  is  poor; 
India  's  insolvent :  seek  it  in  thyself, 
Seek  in  thy  naked  self,  and  find  it  there ; 
In  being  so  descended,  form'd,  endow'd ; 
Sky-born,  sky-guided,  sky-returning  race  ! 
Erect,  immortal,  rational,  divine ! 
In  senses,  which  inherit  earth,  and  heavens ; 
Enjoy  the  various  riches  nature  yields ; 
Far  nobler ;  give  the  nches  they  enjoy ; 
Give  taste  to  fruits  ;  and  harmony  to  groves  ; 
Their  radiant  beams  to  gold,  and  gold's  bright  sire ; 
Take  in,  at  once,  the  landscape  of  the  world, 
At  a  small  inlet,  which  a  grain  might  close. 
And  half  create  the  wond'rous  world  they  see. 
Our  senses,  and  our  reason,  are  divine. 


200  THE    compl'aint. 

But  for  the  magic  organ's  pow'rful  charm. 
Earth  were  a  rude,  uncolor'd  chaos  still. 
Objects  are  but  th'  occasion ;  ours  th'  exploit ; 
Ours  is  the  cloth,  the  pencil,  and  the  paint, 
Which  nature's  admirable  pictures  draws ; 
And  beautifies  creation's  ample  dome. 
Like  Milton's  Eve,  when  gazing  on  tne  laRe, 
Man  makes  the  matchless  image  man  admires. 
Say  then,  shall  man,  his  thoughts  all  sent  abroad, 
Superior  wonders  in  himself  forgot, 
His  admiration  waste  on  objects  round. 
When  heav'n  makes  him  the  soul  of  all  he  sees  ? 
Absurd  !  not  rare  !  so  great,  so  mean,  is  man. 

What  wealth  in  senses  such  as  these  !  what  wealth 
In  fancy,  fir'd  to  form  a  fairer  scene 
Than  sense  surveys !     In  mem'ry's  firm  record, 
Which,  should  it  perish,  could  this  world  recall 
From  the  dark  shadows  of  o'erwhelming  years ! 
In  colors  fresh,  originally  bright 
Preserve  its  portrait,  and  report  its  fate  ! 
What  wealth  in  intellect,  that  sov'reign  power ! 
Which  sense,  and  fancy,  summons  to  the  bar ; 


1 

NIGHT     VI.  201 


Interrogates,  approves,  or  reprehends ; 

And  from  the  mass  those  underhngs  import, 

From  their  materials  sifted,  and  refin'd, 

And  in  truth's  balance  accurately  weigh 'd, 

Fonns  art,  and  science,  government,  and  law ; 

The  solid  basis,  and  the  beauteous  frame, 

The  vitals,  and  th*^  grace  of  civil  life ! 

And  manners  (sad  exception !)  set  aside, 

Strikes  out,  with  master-hand,  a  copy  fair 

Of  his  idea,  whose  indulgent  thought 

Long,  long,  ere  chaos  teem'd,  plann'd  human  bliss. 

What  wealth  in  souls  that  soar,  dive,  range  around, 
Disdaining  limit,  or  from  place,  or  time ; 
And  hear  at  once,  in  thought  extensive,  hear 
Th'  Almighty  fiat,  and  the  trumpet's  sound  ! 
Bold,  on  creation's  outside  walk,  and  view 
What  was,  and  is,  and  more  than  e'er  shall  be ! 
Commanding,  with  omnipotence  of  thought, 
Creations  new  in  fancy's  field  to  rise  ! 
Souls,  that  can  grasp  whate'er  th'  Almighty  made, 
And  wander  wild,  through  things  impossible ! 
What  wealth,  in  faculties  of  endless  growth, 


9* 


202  THE     COMPLAINT. 

In  quenchless  passions  violent  to  crave, 
In  liberty  to  choose,  in  pow'r  to  reach. 
And  in  duration  (how  thy  riches  rise  !) 
Duration  to  perpetuate — boundless  bliss ! 

Ask  you,  what  power  resides  in  feeble  man 
That  bliss  to  gain  ?     Is  virtue's  then,  unknown  ? 
Virtue,  our  present  peace,  our  future  prize. 
Man's  unprecarious,  natural  estate, 
Improveable  at  will,  in  virtue,  lies  ; 
Its  tenure  sure ;  its  income  is  divine. 

High-built  alMjr.daiice,  h(.ap  on  heap  !  for  what  ? 
To  breed  new  wants,  and  beggar  us  the  more ; 
Then,  make  a  richer  scramble  for  the  throng  ? 
Soon  as  this  feeble  pulse,  which  leaps  so  long 
Almost  by  miracle,  is  tir'd  with  play. 
Like  iiibbish  from  disploding  engines  thrown, 
Our  magazines  of  hoarded  trifles  fly ; 
Fly  diverse  ;  fly  to  foreigners,  to  foes  ; 
New  masters  court,  and  call  the  former  fool 
(How  justly  !)  for  dependence  on  their  stay. 
Wide  scatter,  first,  our  playthings,  then,  our  dust. 

Dost  court  abundance  for  the  sake  of  peace  ? 


NIGHT     VI.  203 


Learn,  and  lament,  thy  self-defeated  scheme : 

Riches  enable  to  be  richer  still ; 

And  richer  still,  Avhat  mortal  can  resist  ? 

Thus  wealth  (a  cruel  task-master !)  enjoins 

New  toils,  succeeding  toils,  an  endless  train ! 

And  murders  peace,  which  taught  it  first  to  shine. 

The  poor  are  half  as  wretched,  as  the  rich ;        ' 

Whose  proud  and  painful  privilege  it  is. 

At  once,  to  bear  a  double  load  of  woe  ; 

To  feel  the  stings  of  envj,  and  of  want, 

Outrageous  want!  both  Indi-i^s  cannot  cure. 

A  competence  is  vital  to  content. 
Much  wealth  is  corpulence,  if  not  disease ; 
Sick,  or  incumber'd,  is  our  happiness. 
A  competence  is  all  we  can  enjoy. 
0  be  content,  where  heav'n  can  give  no  more ! 
More,  like  a  flash  of  water  from  a  lock. 
Quickens  our  spirit's  movement  for  an  hour ; 
But  soon  its  force  is  spent,  nor  rise  our  joys 
Above  our  native  temper's  common  stream. 
Hence  disappointment  lurks  in  ev'ry  prize. 
As  bees  in  flow'rs;  and  stings  us  with  success. 


204  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  rich  man,  who  denies  it,  proudly  feigns ; 
Nor  knows  the  wise  are  iprivj  to  the  he. 
Much  learning  shows  how  little  mortals  know ; 
Much  wealth,  how  little  worldlings  can  enjoy : 
At  best,  it  babies  us  with  endless  toys, 
And  keeps  us  children  till  we  drop  to  dust. 
As  monkies  at  a  mirror  stand  amaz'd, 
They  fail  to  find,  what  they  so  plainly  see ; 
Thus  men,  in  shining  riches,  see  the  face 
Of  happiness,  nor  know  it  is  a  shade ; 
But  gaze,  and  touch,  and  peep,  and  peep  again, 
And  wish,  and  wonder  it  is  absent  still. 

How  few  can  rescue  opulence  from  want ! 
Who  lives  to  nature,  rarely  can  be  poor ; 
Who  lives  to  fancy,  never  can  be  rich. 
Poor  is  the  man  in  debt ;  the  man  of  gold, 
In  debt  to  fortune,  trembles  at  her  pow'r. 
The  man  of  reason  smiles  at  her  and  death. 
0  what  a  patrimony  this  !     A  being 
Of  such  inherent  strength  and  majesty. 
Not  worlds  possess'd  can  raise  it ;  worlds  destroy'd 
Can't  injure ;  which  holds  on  its  glorious  course, 


NIGHT     VI.  20o 


When  thine,  0  nature !  ends ;  too  blest  to  mourn 
Creation's  obsequies.     What  treasure,  this  ! 
The  monai  :h  is  a  beggar  to  the  man. 

Immortal !  ages  past,  yet  nothing  gone ! 
Morn  without  eve!  a  race  without  a  goal! 
Unshorten'd  by  progression  infinite  ! 
Futurity  forever  future  !  life 
Beginning  still,  where  computation  ends ! 
'Tis  the  description  of  a  deity  ! 
'Tis  the  description  of  the  meanest  slave  : 
The  meanest  slave  dares  then  Lorenzo  scorn  ? 
The  meanest  slave  thy  sov'reign  glory  shares. 
Proud  youth  !  fastidious  of  the  lower  world ! 
Man's  lawful  pride  includes  humility  ; 
Stoops  to  the  lowest ;  is  too  great  to  find 
Inferiors  ;  all  immortal !  brothers  all ! 
Proprietors  eternal  of  thy  love. 

Immortal !  what  can  strike  the  sense  so  strong. 
As  this  the  soul  ?  it  thunders  to  the  thought ; 
Reason  amazes  ;  gratitude  o'erwhelms  ; 
No  more  we  slumber  on  the  brink  of  fate ; 
Rous'd  at  the  sound,  th'  exulting  soul  ascends, 


TOO  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  breathes  her  native  air ;  an  air  that  feeds 

Ambitions  high,  and  fans  ethereal  fires ; 

Quick  kindles  all  that  is  divine  witnm  us ; 

Nor  leaves  one  loit'ring  thought  beneath  the  stars. 

Has  not  Lorenzo's  bosom  caught  the  flame  ? 
Immortal !  was  but  one  immortal,  how 
Would  others  envy  !  how  would  thrones  adore  ! 
Because  'tis  common,  is  the  blessing  lost  ? 
How  this  ties  up  the  bounteous  hand  of  heaven ! 
0  vain,  vain,  vain  !  all  else :  eternity ! 
A  glorious,  and  a  needful  refuge,  that. 
From  vile  imprisonment  in  abject  views. 
'Tis  immortaUty,  'tis  that  alone^ 
Amid  life's  pains,  abasements,  emptiness. 
The  soul  can  comfort,  elevate,  aixd  fill. 
That  only,  and  that  amply,  this  performs ; 
Lifts  us  above  fife's  pains,  her  joys  above ; 
Their  terror  those  ;  and  these  then  nistre  lose ; 
Eternity  depending  covers  all ; 
Eternity  depending  all  achieves  ; 
Sets  earth  at  distance ;  casts  her  into  shades ; 
Blends  her  distinctions ;  abrogates  her  powers  ; 


NIGHT     VI.  207 


The  low,  the  lofty,  joyous,  and  severe, 
Fortune's  dread  frowns,  and  fascinating  smiles, 
Make  one  promiscuous  and  neglected  heap, 
The  man  beneath ;  if  I  may  call  him  man, 
Whom  immortality's  full  force  inspires. 
Nothing  terrestrial  touches  his  high  thought ; 
Suns  shine  unseen,  and  thunders  roll  unheard, 
By  minds  quite  conscious  of  their  high  descent. 
Their  present  province,  and  their  future  prize ; 
Divinely  darting  upward  ev'ry  wish. 
Warm  on  the  wing,  in  glorious  absence  lost. 

Doubt  you  this  truth  ?  why  labors  your  behef  ? 
If  earth's  whole  orb  by  some  due  distanc'd  eye 
Was  seen  at  once,  he^  tow'ring  Alps  would  sink. 
And  levell'd  Atlas  leave  an  even  sphere. 
Thus  earth,  and  all  that  earthly  minds  admire, 
Is  swallow'd  in  eternity's  vast  round. 
To  that  ptnpendou:  -^iew,  when  souls  awake. 
So  large  of  late,  so  mountainous  to  man. 
Time's  toys  subside ;  and  equal  all  below. 

Enthusiastic,  this  ?  then  all  are  weak 
But  rank  enthusiasts.     To  this  godlike  height. 


208  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Some  souls  have  soar'd ;  or  martyrs  ne'er  had  bled. 

And  all  may  do,  what  has  by  man  been  done. 

Who,  beaten  by  these  sublunary  storms. 

Boundless,  mterminable  joys  can  weigh, 

Unraptur'd,  unexalted,  uninflam'd  ? 

What  slave  unblest,  who  from  to-morrow's  dawn 

Expects  an  empire  ?    He  forgets  his  chain, 

And,  thron'd  in  thought,  his  absent  sceptre  waves. 

And  what  a  sceptre  waits  us  !  what  a  throne ! 
Her  own  immense  appointments  to  compute, 
Or  comprehend  her  high  prerogatives, 
In  this  her  dark  minority,  how  toils, 
How  vainly  pants,  the  human  soul  divine  ? 
Too  great  the  bounty  seems  for  earthly  joy ; 
What  heart  but  trembles  at  so  strange  a  bliss  ? 

In  spite  'of  all  the  truths  the  muse  has  sung, 
Ne'er  to  be  priz'd  enough  !  .nough  revolv'd  ! 
Are  there,  who  wrap  the  world  so  close  about  them, 
They  see  no  farther  than  the  clouds ;  and  dance 
On  heedless  vanity's  fantastic  toe. 
Till,  stumbling  at  a  straw,  in  their  career 
Headlong  they  plunge,  where  end  both  dance  and  song  ? 


NIGHT     VI.  2C9       " 


Are  there,  Lorenzo  ?  is  it  possible  ? 

Are  there  on  earth  (let  me  not  call  them  men) 

Who  lodge  a  soul  immortal  in  their  br^sts ; 

Unconscious  as  the  mountain  of  its  ore ; 

Or  rock,  of  its  inestimable  gem  ? 

When  rocks  shall  melt,  and  mountains  vanish,  these 

Shall  know  their  treasure ;  treasure,  then,  no  more. 

Are  there  (still  more  amazing !)  who  resist 
The  rising  thought  ?  who  smother,  in  its  birth. 
The  glorious  truth  ?  who  struggle  to  be  brutes  ? 
Who  thro'  this  bosom-barrier  burst  their  way  ? 
And,  with  revers'd  ambition,  strive  to  sink  ? 
Who  labor  downwards  thro'  th'  opposing  pow'rs 
Of  instinct,  reason,  and  the  world  against  them. 
To  dismal  hopes,  and  shelter  in  the  shock 
Of  endless  night  ?  night  darker  than  the  grave's  ? 
Who  fight  the  proofs  of  immortality  ? 
With  horrid  zeal,  and  execrable  arts, 
Work  all  their  engines,  level  their  black  fires, 
To  blot  from  man  this  attribute  divine, 
(Than  \'ital  blood  far  dearer  to  the  wise) 
Blasphemers,  and  rank  atheists  to  themselves  ? 


2iJ  THE     COMPLAINT. 

To  contradict  them  see  all  nature  rise  ! 
What  object,  what  event,  the  moon  beneath. 
But  argues,  or  endears,  an  after -scene  ? 
To  reason  proves,  or  weds  it  to  desire  ? 
All  things  proclaim  it  needful ;  some  advance 
One  precious  step  beyond,  and  prove  it  sure. 
A  thousand  arguments  swarm  round  my  pen, 
From  heav'n,  and  earth,  and  man.     Indulge  a  few. 
By  nature,  as  her  common  habit  worn ; 
So  pressing  Providence  a  truth  to  teach, 
Which  truth  untaught,  all  other  truths  were  vain. 

Thou  !  whose  all-providential  eye  surveys. 
Whose  hand  directs,  whose  Spirit  fills  and  warms 
Creation,  and  holds  empire  far  beyond ! 
Eternity's  Inhabitant  august ! 
Of  two  eternities  amazing  Lord  ! 
One  past,  ere  man's  or  angel's  had  begun : 
Aid !  while  I  rescue  from  the  foe's  assault 
Thy  glorious  immortality  in  man  : 
A  theme  forever,  and  for  all,  of  weight, 
Of  moment  infinite  !  but  relish'd  most 
By  those  who  love  thee  most,  who  most  adore. 


NIGHT     VI. 


Nature,  thy  daughter,  ever  changing  birth 
Of  thee,  the  great  Immutable,  to  man 
Speaks  wisdom  ;  is  his  oracle  supreme ; 
And  he  who  most  consults  her  is  most  wise. 
Lorenzo,  to  this  heav'nly  Delphos  haste  ; 
And  come  back  all-immortal,  all- divine : 
Look  nature  through,  'tis  revolution  all ; 
All  change,  no  death.     Day  follows  night ;  and  night 
The  dying  day ;  stars  rise,  and  set,  and  rise ; 
Earth  takes  th'  example.     See  the  summer  gay, 
With  her  green  chaplet,  and  ambrosial  flow'rs 
Droops  into  pallid  autumn :   winter  gray. 
Horrid  with  frost,  and  turbulent  with  storm. 
Blows  autumn  and  his  golden  fruits  avray ; 
Then  melts  into  the  spring  :  soft  spring,  wiili  breath 
Favonian,  from  warm  chambers  of  the  south. 
Recalls  the  first.     All,  to  re-flourish,  fades ; 
As  in  a  wheel,  all  sinks  to  re-ascend. 
Emblems  of  man,  who  passes,  not  expires. 

With  this  minute  distinction,  emblems  just, 
Nature  revolves,  but  man  advances  ;  both 
Eternal ;  that  a  circle,  this  a  line  ; 


212  THE     COMPLAINT. 

That  gravitates,  this  soars.     Th'  aspiring  soul, 
Ardent  and  tremulous,  like  flame,  ascends; 
Zeal  and  humility  her  wings  to  heav'n. 
The  world  of  matter,  with  its  various  forms. 
All  dies  into  new  life.     Life  born  from  death 
Rolls  the  vast  mass,  and  shall  forever  roll. 
'No  single  atom,  once  in  being,  lost, 
With  change  of  counsel  charges  the  Most  High. 

What  hence  infers  Lorenzo  ?    Can  it  be  ? 
Matter  immortal  ?     And  shall  spirit  die  ? 
Above  the  nobler,  shall  less  noble  rise  ? 
Shall  man  alone,  for  whom  all  else  revives, 
No  resurrection  know  ?     Shall  man  alone, 
Imperial  man !  be  sown  in  barren  ground, 
Less  privileged  than  grain,  on  which  he  feeds  ? 
Is  man,  in  whom  alone  is  pow'r  to  prize 
The  bliss  of  being,  or  with  previous  pain 
Deplore  its  period,  by  the  spleen  of  fate, 
Severely  doom'd  death's  single  unrede».r.ied? 

If  nature's  revolution  speaks  aloud. 
In  her  gradation,  hear  her  louder  still. 
Look  nature  through,  'tis  neat  gradation  all. 


NIGHT     VI.  213 


By  what  minute  degree  her  scale  ascends ! 

Each  middle  nature  join'd  at  each  extreme, 

To  that  above  it  join'd,  to  that  beneath. 

Parts  into  parts  reciprocally  shot, 

Abhor  divorce.     What  love  of  union  reigns  ! 

Here,  dormant  matter  waits  a  call  to  life ; 

Half-life,  half-death,  join  there:  here,  life  and  sense; 

There,  sense  from  reason  steals  a  ghmmering  ray ; 

Reason  shines  out  in  man.     But  how  preserved 

The  chain  unbroken  upward,  to  the  realms 

Of  incorporeal  life  ?  those  realms  of  bhss 

Where  death  hath  no  dominion?     Grant  a  make 

Half  mortal,  half  immortal :  earthly,  part, 

And  part  etherial :  grant  the  soul  of  man 

Eternal ;  or  in  man  the  series  ends. 

Wide  yawns  the  gap  ;  connection  is  no  more  ; 

Check'd  reason  halts  ;  her  next  step  wants  support; 

Striving  to  chmb,  she  tumbles  from  her  scheme ; 

A  scheme  analogy  pronounc'd  so  true : 

Analogy,  man's  surest  guide  below. 

Thus  far,  all  nature  calls  on  thy  belief. 
And  will  Lorenzo,  c  reless  of  the  call, 


214  THE     COMPLAINT. 

False  attestation  on  all  nature  charge, 

Rather  than  violate  his  league  with  death  ; 

Renounce  his  reason,  rather  than  renounce 

The  dust  belov'd,  and  run  the  risk  of  heav'n  ? 

0  what  indignity  to  deathless  souls ! 

What  treason  to  the  majesty  of  man ! 

Of  man  immortal !     Hear  the  lofty  style  : 
j^,*'  If  so  decreed,  th'  Almighty  will  be  done. 
mLet  earth  dissolve,  yon  pond'rous  orbs  descend, 
\M.nd  grind  us  into  dust:  the  soul  is  safe; 

The  man  emerges ;  mounts  above  the  wreck, 

As  tow'ring  flame  from  nature's  fun'ral  pyre : 

O'er  devastation  as  a  gainer  smiles ; 

His  charter,  his  inviolable  rights, 

Well  pleased  to  learn  from  thunder's  impotence, 

Death's  pointless  darts,  and  hell's  defeated  storms." 

But  these  chimeras  touch  not  thee,  Lorenzo ! 

The  glories  of  the  world  th}^  sev'nfold  shield. 

Other  ambition  than  of  crowns  in  air, 

And  superlunary  felicities, 

Thy  bosom  warm.     I  '11  cool  it,  if  I  can  ; 

And  turn' those  Mories  than  enchant,  aerainst  thee.  • 


NIGHT     VI.  215 


What  ties  thee  to  this  life  proclaims  the  next. 
If  wise,  the  cause  that  wounds  thee  is  thy  cure. 

Come,  my  ambitious !  let  us  mount  together 
(To  mount,  Lorenzo  never  can  refuse ;) 
And  from  the  clouds,  where  pride  delights  to  dwell, 
Look  down  on  earth. — What  seest  thou?    Wond'rous 

things ! 
Terrestrial  wonders,  that  eclipse  the  skies. 
What  lengths  of  labor'd  lands !  what  loaded  seas 
Loaded  by  man,  for  pleasure,  wealth,  or  war ! 
Seas,  winds,  and  planets,  into  service  brought, 
His  art  acknowledge,  and  promote  his  ends.        ' 
Nor  can  th'  eternal  rocks  his  will  withstand. 
What  leveil'd  mountains !  and  what  lifted  vales  ! 
O'er  vales  and  mountains  sumptuous  cities  swell, 
And  gild  our  landscape  with  their  glitt'ring  spires. 
Some  'mid  the  wond'ring  waves  majestic  rise ; 
And  Neptune  holds  a  mirror  to  their  charms. 
Far  greater  still !  (what  cannot  mortal  might  ?) 
See  wide  dominions  ravish'd  from  the  deep ! 
The  narrov/'d  deep  with  indignation  foams. 
Or  southward  turn ;  to  delicate,  and  grand, 


216  THE     COMPLAINT. 

The  finer  arts  there  ripen  in  the  sun. 

How  the  tall  temples,  as  to  meet  their  gods, 

Ascend  the  skies !  the  proud  triumphal  arch 

Shows  us  half  heav'n  beneath  its  ample  bend. 

High  through  mid  air,  here  streams  are  taught  to  flow ; 

Whole  rivers,  there,  laid  by  i'n  basins,  sleep. 

Here,  plains  turn  oceans ;  there  vast  oceans  join 

Thro'  kingdoms  channell'd  deep  from  shore  to  shore ; 

And  chang'd  creation  takes  its  face  from  man. 

Beats  thy  brave  breast  for  formidable  scenes, 

Where  fame  and  empire  wait  upon  the  sword  ? 

See  fields  in  blood  ;  hear  naval  thunders  rise  ; 

Britannia's  voice !  that  awes  the  world  to  peace. 

How  yon  enormous  mole  projecting  breaks 

The  mid-sea,  furious  waves  !  their  roar  amidst, 

Out-speaks  the  Deity,  and  says,  "  0  main ! 

Thus  far,  nor  farther  :  new  restraints  obey.'* 

Earth  's  disembowell'd  !  measur'd  are  the  skies ! 

Stars  are  detected  in  their  deep  recess  ! 

Creation  widens !  vanquish'd  nature  yields  ! 

Her  secrets  are  extorted !  Art  prevails  ! 

What  monuments  of  genius,  spirit,  pow'r ! 


NIGHT     VI.  217 


And  now,  Lorenzo,  raptured  at  this  scene. 
Whose  glories  render  lieav'n  superfluous  !  say, 
Whose  footsteps  these  ? — Immortals  have  been  here. 
Could  less  than  souls  immortal  this  have  done  ? 
Earth 's  cover'd  o'er  with  proofs  of  souls  immortal ; 
And  proofs  of  immortality  forgot. 

To  flatter  thy  grand  foible,  I  confess. 
These  are  ambition's  works  ;  and  these  are  great : 
But  this  the  least  immortal  souls  can  do : 
Transcend  them  all. — But  what  can  these  transcend  ? 
Dost  ask  me  what  ? — One  sigh  for  the  distress'd. 
What  then  for  infidels  ? — a  deeper  sigh ! 
'Tis  moral  grandeur  makes  the  mighty  man : 
How  little  they,  who  think  aught  great  below ! 
All  our  ambitions  death  defeats,  but  one ; 
And  that  it  crowns. — Here  cease  we  :  but,  ere  long, 
More  pow'rful  proof  shall  take  the  field  against  thee, 
Stronger  than  death,  and  smiUng  at  the  tomb. 


10 


NIGHT  VII. 

THE    INFIDEL    RECLAIMED. 

PREFACE  TO  SECOND  PART. 

As  we  are  at  war  with  the  power,  it  were  well  if  we  wf.re  at 
war  with  the  manners,  of  France.  A  land  of  levity  is  a  land 
of  guilt,  A  serious  mind  is  the  native  soil  of  every  virtue,  and 
the  single  character  that  does  true  honor  to  mankind.  The 
soul's  immortality  has  been  the  favorite  theme  with  the  serious 
of  all  ages.  Nor  is  it  strange  ;  it  is  a  subject  by  far  the  most 
interesting  and  important  that  can  enter  the  mind  of  man.  Of 
highest  moment-  this  subject  always  was,  and  always  will  be. 
Yet  this  its  highest  moment  seems  to  admit  of  increase,  at  this 
day ;  a  sort  of  occasional  importance  is  superadded  to  the  natu- 
ral weight  of  it,  if  that  opinion  which  is  advanced  in  the  Pre- 
face to  the  preceding  Night  be  just.  It  is  there  supposed  that 
all  our  infidels,  whatever  scheme,  for  argument's  sake,  and  to 
keep  themselves  in  countenance,  they  patronize,  are  betrayed 
into  their  deplorable  error,  by  some  doubt  of  their  immortality, 
at  the  bottom.  And  the  more  I  consider  this  point,  the  more  am 
I  persuaded  of  the  truth  of  that  opinion.  Though  the  distrust 
of  a  futurity  is  a  strange  error,  yet  is  it  an  error  into  which  bad 


NIGHT     VII.  219 


men  may  naturally  be  distressed.  For  it  is  impossible  to  bid  de- 
fiance to  final  ruin,  without  some  refuge  in  imagination,  some 
presumption  of  escape.  And  what  presumption  is  there  1  There 
are  but  two  in  nature  ;  but  two  within  the  compass  of  human 
thought ;  and  these  are, — That  either  God  will  not,  or  cannot, 
punish.  Considering  the  Divine  attributes,  the  first  is  too  gross 
to  be  digested  by  our  strongest  wishes.  And,  since  omnipotence 
is  as  much  a  Divine  attribute  as  holiness,  that  God  cannot  pun- 
ish is  as  absurd  a  supposition  as  the  former.  God  certainly  can 
punish,  as  long  as  the  wicked  man  exists.  In  non-existence,  there- 
fore, is  their  only  refuge ;  and,  consequently,  non-existence  is 
their  strongest  wish.  And  strong  wishes  have  a  strange  influ- 
ence on  our  opinions ;  they  bias  the  judgment  in  a  manner  al- 
most incredible.  And  since  on  this  member  of  their  alternative, 
there  are  some  very  small  appearances  in  their  favor,  and  none 
at  all  on  the  other,  they  catch  at  this  reed,  they  lay  hold  on  this 
chimera,  to  save  themselves  from  the  shock  and  horror  of  an  im- 
mediate and  absolute  despair. 

On  reviewing  my  subject  by  the  light  which  this  argument,  and 
others  of  like  tendency,  threw  upon  it,  I  was  more  inclined  than 
ever  to  pursue  it,  as  it  appeared  to  me  to  strike  directly  at  the 
main  root  of  all  our  infidehty.  In  the  following  pages,  it  is  ac- 
cordingly pursued  at  large  ;  and  some  arguments  for  immortality, 
new,  at  least  to  me,  are  ventured  on  in  them.  There,  also,  the 
writer  has  made  an  attempt  to  set  the  gross  absurdities  and  Hor- 
rors of  annihilation  in  a  fuller  and  more  affecting  view,  than  is, 
I  think,  to  be  met  with  elsewhere. 

The  gentlemen  for  whose  sake  this  attempt  was  chiefly  made, 


220  THE     COMPLAINT, 


profess  great  admiration  for  the  wisdom  of  heathen  antiquity : 
what  pity  it  is  they  are  not  sin-cere  !  If  they  were  sincere,  how 
would  it  mortify  them  to  consider  with  what  contempt  and  abhor- 
rence their  notions  would  have  been  received  by  those  whom  they 
so  much  admire  !  What  degree  of  contempt  and  abhorrence  would 
fall  to  their  share,  may  be  conjectured  by  the  following  matter  of 
fact,  in  my  opinion  extremely  memorable.  Of  all  their  heathen 
worthies,  Socrates,  it  is  well  known,  was  the  most  guarded,  dis- 
passionate, and  composed  :  yet  this  great  master  of  temper  was 
angry  ;  and  angry  at  his  last  hour  ;  and  angry  with  his  friend  : 
and  angry  for  what  deserved  acknowledgment ;  angry  for  a  right 
and  tender  instance  of  true  friendship  towards  him.  Is  not  this 
surprising  ]  What  could  be  the  cause  1  The  cause  was  for  his 
honor;  it  was  a  truly  noble,  though,  perhaps,  a  too  punctilious 
regard  for  immortality :  for  his  friend  asking  him,  with  such  an 
affectionate  concern  as  became  a  friend,  '  Where  he  should  de- 
posit his  remains  V  it  was  resented  by  Socrates,  as  implying  a 
dishonorable  supposition,  that  he  could  be  so  mean  as  to  have 
regard  for  anything,  even  in  himself,  that  was  not  immortal. 

This  fact,  well  considered,  would  make  our  infidels  withdraw 
their  admiration  from  Socrates ;  or  make  them  endeavor,  by  their 
imitation  of  this  illustrious  example,  to  share  his  glory :  and, 
consequently,  it  would  iHcline  them  to  peruse  the  following  pages 
with  candor  and  impartiality ;  which  is  all  I  desire,  and  that 
for  their  sakes :  for  I  am  persuaded,  that  an  unprejudiced  infidel 
must,  necessarily,  receive  some  advantage-^us  impressions  from 
them. 

July  7,  1744. 


PART   THE  SECOND. 

CONTAINING    THE    NATURE,    PROOF,    AND    IMPORTANCE 
OF    IMMORTALITY. 

Heav'n  gives  the  needful,  but  neglected,  call. 
What  day,  what  hour,  but  knocks  at  human  hearts, 
To  wake  the  soul  to  sense  of  future  scenes  ? 
Deaths  stand,  like  Mercuries,  in  ev'ry  way. 
And  kindly  point  us  to  our  journey's  end. 
Pope,  who  couldst  make  immortals,  art  thou  dead  ? 
I  give  thee  joy :  nor  will  I  take  my  leave  ; 
So  soon  to  follow.     Man  but  dives  to  death ; 
Dives  from  the  sun,  in  fairer  day  to  rise ; 
The  grave,  his  subterranean  road  to  bliss. 
Yes,  infinite  indulgence  plann'd  it  so  ; 
Through  various  parts  our  glorious  story  runs  : 
Time  gives  the  preface,  endless  age  unrolls 
The  volume  (ne'er  unroll'd  !)  of  human  fate. 
This,  earth  and  skies*  already  have  proclaim'd. 

*  Night  the  Sixth. 


222  THE      COMPLAINT. 

The  world  's  a  prophecy  of  worlds  to  come  ; 

And  who,  what  God  foretells  (who  speaks  in  things 

Still  louder  than  in  words)  shall  dare  deny  ? 

If  nature's  arguments  appear  too  weak. 

Turn  a  new  leaf,  and  stronger  read  in  man. 

If  man  sleeps  on,  untaught  by  what  he  sees. 

Can  he  prove  infidel  to  what  he  feels  ? 

He,  whose  blind  thought  futurity  denies. 

Unconscious  bears,  Bellerophon  !  like  thee. 

His  own  indictment ;  he  condemns  himself  ; 

Who  reads  his  bosom,  reads  immortal  life ; 

Or,  Nature,  there,  imposing  on  her  sons. 

Has  written  fables  ;  man  was  made  a  lie. 

Why  discontent  forever  harbor'd  there  ? 
Incurable  consumption  of  our  peace  ! 
Resolve  me,  why  the  cottager  and  king. 
He  whom  sea-sever'd  realms  obey,  and  he 
Who  steals  his  own  dominion  from  the  waste. 
Repelling  winter  blasts  with  mud  and  straw. 
Disquieted  alike,  draw  sigh  for  sigh,- 
In  fate  so  distant,  in  complaint  so  near  ? 

Is  it,  that  things  terrestrial  can't  content  ? 


NIGHT     VII.  223 


Deep  in  rich  pasture,  will  thy  flocks  complain  ? 

Not  so  ;  but  to  their  master  is  denied 

To  share  their  sweet  serene.     Man,  ill  at  ease, 

In  this,  not  his  own  place,  this  foreign  field, 

Where  Nature  fodders  him  with  other  food 

Than  was  ordain'd  his  cravings  to  suflSce, 

Poor  in  abundance,  famish'd  at  a  feast, 

Sighs  on  for  something  more,  when  most  enjoy'd. 

Is  Heav'n  then  kinder  to  thy  flocks  than  thee  ? 

Not  so  ;  thy  pasture  richer,  but  remote  ; 

In  part,  remote  ;  for  that  remoter  part 

Man  bleats  from  instinct,  tho'  perhaps,  debauch'd 

By  sense,  his  reason  sleeps,  nor  dreams  the  cause. 

The  cause  how  obvious,  when  his  reason  wakes  ! 

His  grief  is  but  his  grandeur  in  disguise  ; 

And  discontent  is  immortality. 

Shall  sons  of  ether,  shall  the  blood  of  Heav'n, 
Set  up  their  hopes  on  earth,  and  stable  here, 
With  brutal  acquiescence  in  the  mire  ; 
Lorenzo,  no  !  they  shall  be  nobly  pain'd  ; 
The  glorious  foreigners,  distrest,  shall  sigh 
On  thrones  ;  and  thou  congratulate  the  sigh  : 


224  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Man's  misery  declares  him  born  for  bliss  : 
His  anxious  heart  asserts  the  truth  I  sing, 
And  gives  the  sceptic  in  his  head  the  lie. 

Our  heads,  our  hearts,  our  passions,  and  our  pow'rs 
Speak  the  same  language  ;  call  us  to  the  skies  : 
Unripen'd  these  in  this  inclement  clime, 
Scarce  rise  above  conjecture  and  mistake ; 
And  for  this  land  of  trifles  those  too  strong 
Tumultuous  rise,  and  tempest  human  life : 
What  prize  on  earth  can  pay  us  for  the  storm  ? 
Meet  objects  for  our  passions  Heav'n  ordain'd. 
Objects  that  challenge  all  their  fire,  and  leave 
No  fault  but  in  defect  :  bless'd  Heav'n !  avert 
A  bounded  ardor  for  unbounded  bliss  ; 
0  for  a  bliss  unbounded  !  far  beneath 
A  soul  immortal  is  a  mortal  joy. 
Nor  are  our  pow'rs  to  perish  immature ; 
But,  after  feeble  effort  here,  beneath 
A  brighter  sun,  and  in  a  nobler  soil 
Transplanted  from  this  sublunary  bed, 
Shall  flourish  fair,  and  put  forth  all  their  bloom. 

Reason  progressive,  instinct  is  complete  ; 


NIGHT     VII,  225 


Swift  instinct  leaps  ;  slow  reason  feebly  climbs. 

Brutes  soon  their  zenith  reach  ;  their  little  all 

Flows  in  at  once  ;  in  ages  they  no  more 

Could  know,  or  do,  or  covet,  or  enjoy. 

Were  man  to  hve  coeval  with  the  sun, 

The  patriarch  pupil  would  be  learning  still. 

Yet,  dying,  leave  his  lesson  half  unlearnt. 

Men  perish  in  advance,  as  if  the  sun 

Should  set  ere  noon,  in  eastern  oceans  drown'd ; 

If  fit  with  dim  illustrious  to  compare, 

The  sun's  meridian,  with  the  soul  of  man. 

To  man,  why,  step-dame  Nature !  so  severe  ? 

Why  thrown  aside  thy  master-piece  half  wrought, 

While  meaner  efforts  thy  last  hand  enjov  ? 

Or,  if  abortively  poor  man  must  die, 

Nor  reach  what  reach  he  might,  why  die  in  dread  ! 

Why  curs'd  with  foresight  ?  wise  to  misery  ? 

Why  of  his  proud  prerogative  the  prey  ? 

Why  less  pre-eminent  in  rank  than  pain  ? 

His  immortality  alone  can  tell ; 

Full  ample  fund  to  balance  all  amiss, 

And  turn  the  scale  in  favor  of  the  just ! 


10^ 


226  THE     COMPLAINT. 

His  immortality  alone  can  solve 
That  darkest  of  enigmas,  human  hope — 
Of  all  the  darkest,  if  at  death  we  die. 
Hope,  eager  hope,  th'  assassin  of  our  joy, 
All  present  blessings  treading  under  foot, 
Is  scarce  a  milder  tyrant  than  despair. 
With  no  past  toils  content,  still  planning  new, 
Hope  turns  us  o'er  to  death  alone  for  ease. 
Possession,  why  more  tasteless  than  pursuit  ? 
Why  is  a  wish  far  dearer  than  a  crown  ? 
That  wish  accomplish'd,  why  the  grave  of  bliss  ? 
Because,  in  the  great  future  buried  deep. 
Beyond  our  plans  of  empire  and  renown. 
Lies  all  that  man  with  ardor  should  pursue  ; 
And  He  who  made  him  bent  him  to  the  right. 

Man's  heart  th'  Almighty  to  the  future  sets, 
By  secret  and  inviolable  springs  ; 
And  makes  his  hope  his  sublunary  joy. 
Man's  heart  eats  all  things,  and  is  hungry  still : 
'  More,  more  !'  the  glutton  cries :  for  somethinor  new 
So  rages  appetite,  if  man  can't  mount. 
He  will  descend.     He  starves  on  the  possest. 


NIGHT     VII-  227 


Hence,  the  world's  master,  from  ambition's  spire. 
In  Caprea  plunged  ;  and  dived  beneath  the  brute. 
In  that  rank  sty  why  wallow'd  empire's  son 
Supreme  ?     Because  he  could  no  higher  fly ; 
His  riot  was  ambition  in  despair,  . 

Old  Rome  consulted  birds  :  Lorenzo  1  thou. 
With  more  success,  the  flight  of  hope  survey  ; 
Of  restless  hope,  forever  on  the  wing. 
High  perch'd  o'er  ev'ry  thought  that  falcon  sits, 
To  fly  at  all  tlmt  rises  in  her  sight ; 
And,  never  stooping  but  to  mount  again 
Next  moment,  she  betrays  her  aim's  mistake, 
And  owns  her  quarry  lodged  bej^ond  the  grave. 

There  should  it  fail  us  (it  must  fail  us  there, 
If  being  fails,)  more  mournful  riddles  rise, 
And  virtue  vies  with  hope  in  mystery. 
Why  virtue  ?     Where  its  praise,  its  being  fled  ? 
Virtue  is  true  self-interest  pursued  : 
What  true  self  interest  of  quite  mortal  man  ? 
To  close  with  all  that  makes  him  happy  here, 
If  vice  (as  sometimes)  is  our  friend  on  earth. 
Then  vice  is  virtue  :  'tis  our  sov'reia-n  a:ood. 


228  THE     COMPLAINT. 

In  self-applause  is  virtue's  golden  prize  ? 

No  self-applause  attends  it  on  thy  scheme  : 

Whence  self- applause  ?     From  conscience  of  the  right. 

And  what  is  right,  but  means  of  happiness  ? 

No  means  of  happiness  when  virtue  yields. 

That  basis  failing,  falls  the  building  too. 

And  lays  in  ruin  ev'ry  virtuous  joy. 

The  rigid  guardian  of  a  blameless  heart. 
So  long  rever'd,  so  long  reputed  wise. 
Is  weak ;  with  rank  knight-errantries  o'errun. 
Why  beats  thy  bosom  with  illustrious  dreams 
Of  self-exposure,  laudable  and  great  ? 
Of  gallant  enterprise,  and  glorious  death  ? 
Die  for  thy  country  ? — thou  romantic  fool ! 
Seize,  seize  the  plank  thyself,  and  let  her  sink  : 
Thy  country  !  what  to  thee  ? — The  Godhead,  what  ? 
(I  speak  with  awe  !)  tho'  he  should  bid  thee  bleed  ; 
If,  with  thy  blood,  thy  final  hope  is  spilt, 
Nor  can  Omnipotence  reward  the  blow  : 
Be  deaf;  preserve  thy  being  ;  disobey. 

Nor  is  it  disobedience  :  know,  Lorenzo  ? 
Whate'er  th'  Almighty's  subsequent  command, 


NIGHT     VII.  229 

His  fii-st  command  is  this  : — "  Man,  love  thyself.'" 
In  this  alone,  free  agents  are  not  free. 
Existence  is  the  basis,  bliss  the  prize ; 
If  virtue  costs  existence,  'tis  a  crime ; 
Bold  violation  of  our  law  supreme, 
Blact  suicide  :  though  nations,  which  consult 
Their  gain,  at  thy  expense,  resound  applause. 
Since  virtue's  recompense  is  doubtful,  here. 
If  man  dies  wholly,  well  may  we  demand, 
Why  is  man  sufFer'd  to  be  good  in  vain  ? 
Why  to  be  good  in  vain,  is  man  enjoin'd  ? 
Why  to  be  good  in  vain,  is  man  betray'd  ? 
Betrayed  by  traitors  lodged  in  his  own  breast. 
By  sweet  complacencies  from  virtue  felt  ? 
Why  whispers  nature  lies  on  virtue's  part  ? 
Or  if  blind  instinct  (which  assumes  the  name 
Of  sacred  conscience)  plays  the  fool  in  man. 
Why  reason  made  accompHce  in  the  cheat  ? 
Why  are  the  wisest  loudest  in  her  praise  ? 
Can  man  by  reason's  beam  be  led  astray  ? 
Or,  at  his  peril,  imitate  his  God  ? 


230  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Since  virtue  sometimes  ruins  us  on  earth, 
Or  both  are  true,  or  man  survives  the  grave. 

Or  man  survives  the  grave,  or  own,  Lorenzo, 
Thy  boast  supreme,  a  wild  absurdity. 
Dauntless  thy  spirit :  cowards  are  thy  scorn. 
Grant  man  immortal,  and  thy  scorn  is  just. 
The  man  immortal,  rationally  brave. 
Dares  rush  on  death — because  he  cannot  die. 
But  if  man  loses  all  when  life  is  lost. 
He  lives  a  coward,  or  a  fool  expires. 
A  daring  infidel  (and  such  there  are, 
From  pride,  example,  lucre,  rage,  revenge. 
Or  pure  heroical  defect  of  thought,) 
Of  all  earth's  madmen,  most  deserves  a  chain. 

When  to  the  grave  we  follow  the  renown'd 
For  valor,  virtue,  science,  all  we  love, 
And  all  we  praise ;  for  worth,  whose  noon-tide  beam. 
Enabling  us  to  think  in  higher  style. 
Mends  our  ideas  of  ethereal  pow'rs  ; 
Dream  we,  that  lustre  of  the  moral  world 
Goes  out  in  stench,  and  rottenness  the  close  ? 
Why  was  he  wise  to  know,  and  warm  to  praise, 


NIGHT     VII.  231 


And  strenuous  to  transcribe  in  human  life, 
The  mind  Almighty  ?     Could  it  be,  that  fate, 
Just  when  the  lineaments  began  to  shine, 
And  dawn,  the  Deity  should  snatch  the  draught, 
With  night  eternal  blot  it  out,  and  give 
The  skies  alarm,  lest  angels  too  might  die ! 

If  human  souls,  why  not  angelic  too 
Extinguish'd  ?  and  a  solitary  God 
O'er  ghastly  ruin,  frowning  from  his  throne  ? 
Shall  we  this  moment  gaze  on  God  in  man  ? 
The  next,  lose  man  forever  in  the  dust  ? 
From  dust  we  disengage,  or  man  mistakes  ; 
And  there,  where  least  his  judgment  fears  a  flaw. 
Wisdom  and  worth  how  boldly  he  commends ! 
Wisdom  and  worth  are  sacred  names ;  rever'd, 
Where  not  embrac'd ;  applauded !  deified  ! 
Why  not  compassion'd  too  ?     If  spirits  die. 
Both  are  calamities  ;  inflicted  both 
To  make  us  but  more  wretched :  wisdom's  eye 
Acute,  for  what  ?     To  spy  more  miseries  ; 
And  worth,  so  recompensed,  new-points  their  stings. 
Or  man  surmounts  the  grave,  or  gain  is  loss, 


232  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  worth  exalted,  humbles  us  the  more. 
Thou  wilt  not  patronize  a  scheme  that  makes 
Weakness  and  vice  the  refuge  of  mankind ! 

"  Has  virtue,  then,  no  joys  ?" — Yes,  joys  dear-bought. 
Talk  ne'er  so  long,  in  this  imperfect  state. 
Virtue  and  vice  are  at  eternal  war. 
Virtue  's  a  combat ;  and  who  fights  for  nought  ? 
Or  for  precarious,  or  for  small  reward  ? 
Who  virtue's  self-reward  so  loud  resound, 
Would  take  degrees  angehc  here  below, 
And  virtue,  while  they  compliment,  betray, 
By  feeble  motives,  and  unfaithful  guards  ; 
The  crown,  th'  unfading  crown,  her  soul  inspires ; 
'Tis  that,  and  that  alone,  can  countervail 
The  body's  treach'ries,  and  the  world's  assaults : 
On  earth's  poor  pay  our  famish'd  virtue  dies. 
Truth  incontestable  !     In  spite  of  all 
A  Bayle  has  preached,  or  a  Voltaire  believed. 

In  man,  the  more  we  dive,  the  more  we  see 
Heav'n's  signet  stamping  an  immortal  make. 
Dive  to  the  bottom  of  his  soul,  the  base 
Sustaining  all,  what  find  we  ?     Knowledge,  love. 


NIGHT     VII.  233 


As  light  and  heat  essential  to  the  sun, 

These  to  the  soul.     And  why,  if  souls  expire  ? 

How  little  lovely  here  ?     How  little  known  ? 

Small  knowledge  we  dig  up  with  endless  toil ! 

And  love  unfeign'd  may  purchase  perfect  hate. 

Why  starv'd,  on  earth,  our  angel-appetites. 

While  brutal  are  indulged  their  fulsome  fill  ? 

Were  then,  capacities  divine  conferr'd, 

As  a  mock  diadem,  in  savage  sport. 

Rank  insult  of  our  pompous  poverty. 

Which  reaps  but  pain  from  seeming  claims  so  fair  ? 

In  future  age  hes  no  redress  ?     And  shuts 

Eternity  the  door  on  our  complaint  ? 

If  so,  for  what  strange  ends  were  mortals  made ! 

The  worst  to  wallow,  and  the  best  to  weep  : 

The  man  who  merits  most,  must  most  complain. 

Can  we  conceive  a  disregard  in  heav'n. 

What  the  worst  perpetrate,  or  best  endure  ? 

This  cannot  be.     To  love,  and  know,  in  man 
Is  boundless  appetite,  and  boundless  pow'r : 
And  tliese  demonstrate  boundless  objects  too. 
Objects,  pow'rs,  appetites,  Heav'n  suits  in  all : 


234  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Nor  nature  through,  e'er  violates  this  sweet 
Eternal  concord  on  her  tuneful  string. 
Is  man  the  sole  exception  from  her  laws  ? 
Eternity  struck  off  from  human  hope, 
(I  speak  with  truth,  but  veneration  too) 
Man  is  a  monster,  the  reproach  of  Heav*n, 
A  stain,  a  dark  impenetrable  cloud, 
On  nature's  beauteous  aspect :  and  deforms, 
(Amazing  blot !)  deforms  her  with  her  lord. 
If  such  is  man's  allotment,  what  is  heav'n  ? 
Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  blaspheme. 

Or  own  the  soul  immortal,  or  invert 
All  order.     Go,  mock-majesty  !  go,  man  ! 
And  bow  to  thy  superiors  of  the  stall : 
Through  ev'ry  scene  of  sense  superior  far : 
They  graze  the  turf  untill'd ;  they  drink  the  stream 
Unbrew'd  and  ever  full,  and  un-embitter'd 
With  doubts,  fears,  fruitless  hopes,  regrets,  despairs ; 
Mankind's  peculiar !  reason's  precious  dow'r ! 
No  foreign  clime  they  ransack  for  their  robes ; 
Nor  brothers  cite  to  the  litigious  bar ; 
Their  good  is  good  entire,  unmix'd,  unmarr'd ; 


NIGHT     VII.  235 


They  find  a  paradise  in  every  field, 

On  boughs  forbidden,  where  no  curses  hang ; 

Their  ill  no  more  than  strikes  the  sense  ;  unstretch*d 

By  previous  dread,  or  murmur  in  the  rear  : 

When  the  worst  comes,  it  comes  unfear'd ;  one  stroke 

Begins  and  ends  their  woe :  they  die  but  once ; 

Blest,  incommunicable  privilege  !  for  which 

Proud  man,  who  rules  the  globe,  and  reads  the  stars, 

Philosopher,  or  hero,  sighs  in  vain. 

Account  for  this  prerogative  in  brutes. 
No  day,  no  glimpse  of  day,  to  solve  the  knot. 
But  what  beams  on  it  from  eternity. 
0  sole  and  sweet  solution  !  that  unites 
The  difficult,  and  softens  the  severe ; 
The  cloud  on  nature's  beauteous  face  dispels ; 
Restores  bright  order ;  casts  the  brute  beneath ; 
And  re-enthrones  us  in  supremacy 
Of  joy,  e'en  here  :  admit  immortal  life. 
And  virtue  is  knight-errantry  no  more ; 
Each  virtue  brings  in  hand  a  golden  dow'r. 
Far  richer  in  reversion  ;  hope  exults  ; 
And  though,  much  bitter  in  our  cup  is  thrown, 


236  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Predominates,  and  gives  the  taste  of  heav'n. 
0  wherefore  is  the  Deity  so  kind  ? 
Astonishing  beyond  astonishment ! 
Heav'n  our  reward — for  heav'n  enjoy'd  below. 

Still  unsubdued  thy  stubborn  heart  ? — For  there 
The  traitor  lurks  who  doubts  the  truth  I  sing. 
Reason  is  guiltless  !  will  alone  rebels. 
What,  in  that  stubborn  heart,  if  I  should  find 
New  unexpected  witnesses  against  thee  ? 
Ambition,  pleasure,  and  the  love  of  gain ! 
Canst  thou  suspect  that  these,  which  make  the  soul 
The  slave  of  earth,  should  own  her  heir  of  heav'n  ? 
Canst  thou  suspect  what  makes  us  disbelieve 
Our  immortality,  should  prove  it  sure  ? 

First,  then,  Ambition  summon  to  the  bar. 
Ambition's  shame,  extravagance,  disgust. 
And  inextinguishable  nature,  speak. 
Each  much  deposes ;  hear  them  in  their  turn. 

Thy  soul,  how  passionately  fond  of  fame  ! 
How  anxious  th  at  fond  passion  to  conceal ! 
We  blush,  detected  in  designs  on  praise, 
Though  for  best  deeds,  and  from  the  best  of  men ; 


NIGHT     VII.  237 


And  why  ?     Because  immortal.     Ait  divine 
Has  made  the  body  tutor  to  the  soul ; 
Heav'n  kindly  gives  our  blood  a  moral  flow; 
Bids  it  ascend  the  glowing  cheek,  and  there 
Upbraid  that  little  heart's  inglorious  aim, 
Which  stoops  to  court  a  character  from  man : 
While  o'er  us  in  tremendous  judgment  sit 
Far  more  than  man,  with  endless  praise  and  blame. 

Ambition's  boundless  appetite  out-speaks 
The  verdict  of  its  shame.     When  souls  take  fire 
At  high  presumptions  of  their  own  desert, 
One  age  is  poor  applause ;  the  mighty  shout, 
The  thunder  by  the  living  few  begun, 
Late  time  must  echo ;  worlds  unborn  resound. 
We  wish  our  names  eternally  to  live : 
Wild  dream  !  which  ne'er  had  haunted  human  thought 
Had  not  our  natures  been  eternal  too. 
Instinct  points  out  an  int'rest  in  hereafter ; 
But  our  blind  reason  sees  not  where  it  lies  ; 
Or  seeing,  gives  the  substance  for  the  shade. 

Fame  is  the  shade  of  immortality, 
And  'n  itself  a  shadow.     Soon  as  caught, 


238  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Contemn'd ;  it  shrinks  to  nothing  in  the  grasp. 
Consult  th'  ambitious,  'tis  ambition's  cure. 
"  And  is  this  all  ?"  cried  Caesar,  at  his  height, 
Disgusted.     This  third  proof  ambition  brings 
Of  immortality.     The  first  in  fame. 
Observe  him  near,  your  envy  will  abate : 
Sham'd  at  the  disproportion  vast  between 
The  passion  and  the  purchase,  he  will  sigh 
At  such  success,  and  blush  at  his  renown. 
And  why  ?     Because  far  richer  prize  invites 
His  heart ;  far  more  illustrious  glory  calls  ; 
It  calls  in  whispers,  yet  the  deafest  hear. 

A.nd  can  ambition  a  fourth  proof  supply  ? 
It  can,  and  stronger  than  the  former  three  ; 
Yet  quite  o'erlook'd  by  some  reputed  wise. 
Though  disappointments  in  ambition  pain. 
And  though  success  disgusts,  yet  still,  Lorenzo ! 
In  vain  we  strive  to  pluck  it  from  our  hearts ; 
By  nature  planted  for  the  noblest  ends. 
Absurd  the  fam'd  advice  to  Pyrrhus  giv'n. 
More  prais'd  than  ponder'd  ;  specious,  but  unsound. 
Sooner  that  hero's  sword  the  world  had  qucll'd. 


NIGHT   vir.  239 


Than  reason  his  ambition.     Man  must  soar. 

An  obstinate  activity  within, 

An  insuppressive  spring,  will  toss  him  up, 

In  spite  of  fortune's  load.     Not  kings  alone. 

Each  villager  has  his  ambition  too  ; 

No  sultan  prouder  than  his  fetter'd  slave : 

Slaves  build  their  litttle  Babylons  of  straw. 

Echo  the  proud  Assyrian  in  their  hearts, 

And  cry,  "  Behold  the  wonders  of  my  might !" 

And  why  ?     Because  immortal  as  their  lord  : 

And  souls  immortal  must  forever  heave 

At  something  great ;  the  glitter,  or  the  gold ; 

The  praise  of  mortals,  or  the  praise  of  Heav'n. 

Nor  absolutely  vain  is  human  praise. 
When  human  is  supported  by  divine. 
I'll  introduce  Lorenzo  to  himself: 
Pleasure  and  pride  (bad  masters !)  share  our  hearts. 
As  love  of  pleasure  is  ordain'd  to  guard 
And  feed  our  bodies,  and  extend  our  race : 
The  love  of  praise  is  planted  to  protect 
And  propagate  the  glories  of  the  mind. 
What  is  it,  but  the  love  of  praise,  inspires. 


240  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Matures,  refines,  embellishes,  exalts, 

Earth's  happiness  ?     From  that,  the  delicate, 

The  grand,  the  marvellous,  of  civil  life. 

Want  and  convenience,  under-workers,  lay 

The  bases,  on  which  love  of  glory  builds. 

Nor  is  thy  life,  O  virtue  !  less  in  debt 

To  praise,  thy  secret  stimulating  friend. 

Were  man  not  proud,  what  merit  should  we  miss ! 

Pride  made  the  virtues  of  the  pagan  world. 

Praise  is  the  salt  that  seasons  right  to  man, 

And  whets  his  appetite  for  moral  good. 

Thirst  of  applause  is  virtue's  second  guard  ; 

Reason  her  first ;  but  reason  wants  an  aid ; 

Our  private  reason  is  a  flatterer  ; 

Thirst  of  applause  calls  public  judgment  in 

To  poise  our  own,  to  keep  an  even  scale, 

And  give  endanger'd  virtue  fairer  play. 

Here  a  fifth  proof  arises,  stronger  still ; 
Why  this  so  nice  construction  of  our  hearts  ; 
These  delicate  moralities  of  sense ; 
This  constitutional  reserve  of  aid 
To  succor  virtue,  when  our  reason  fails  ; 


NIGHT     VII.  241 

If  virtue,  kept  alive  by  care  and  toil, 
And,  oft,  the  mark  of  injuries  on  earth, 
When  labor'd  to  maturity  (its  bill 
Of  disciplines  and  pains  unpaid,)  must  die  ? 
Why  freighted  rich,  to  dash  against  a  rock  ? 
Were  man  to  perish  when  most  fit  to  live, 
0  how  misspent  were  all  these  stratagems. 
By  skill  divine  inwoven  in  our  frame  ! 
Where  are  Heav'n's  hohness  and  mercy  fled  ? 
Laughs  Heav'n  at  once  at  virtue  and  at  man  ?        -  "     - 
If  not,  why  that  discourag'd,  this  destroy'd  ? 
Thus  far  ambition.     What  says  Avarice  ? 
This  her  chief  maxim,  which  has  long  been  thine  : 
*  The  wise  and  wealthy  are  the  same.'     I  grant  it. 
To  store  up  treasure,  with  incessant  toil, 
This  is  man's  province,  this  his  highest  praise, 
To  this  great  end  keen  instinct  stings  him  on. 
To  guide  that  instinct.  Reason !  is  thy  charge ; 
'Tis  thine  to  tell  us  where  true  treasure  lies : 
But,  Reason  failing  to  discharge  her  trust, 
Or  to  the  deaf  discharging  it  in  vain, 
A  blunder  follows  ;  and  blind  industry. 


11 


242  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Gall'd  by  the  spur,  but  stranger  to  the  course, 

(The  course  where  stakes  of  more  than  gold  are  won) 

O'erloading,  with  the  cares  of  distant  age, 

The  jaded  spirits  of  the  present  hour, 

Provides  for  an  eternity  below. 

*  Thou  shalt  not  covet,'  is  a  wise  command ; 
But  bounded  to  the  wealth  the  sun  surveys  ; 
Look  farther,  the  command  stands  quite  revers'd, 
And  av'rice  is  a  virtue  most  divine. 
Is  faith  a  refuge  for  our  happiness  ? 
Most  sure.     And  is  it  not  for  reason  too  ? 
Nothing  this  world  unriddles,  but  the  next. 
Whence  inextinguishable  tliirst  of  gain  ? 
From  inextinguishable  life  in  man. 
Man,  if  not  meant,  by  worth,  to  reach  the  skies, 
Had  wanted  wing  to  fly  so  far  in  guilt. 
Sour  grapes,  I  grant,  ambition,  avarice : 
Yet  still  their  root  is  immortality. 
These  its  wild  growths  so  bitter,  and  so  base, 
(Pain  and  reproach  !)  religion  can  reclaim, 
Refine,  exalt,  throw  down  their  pois'nous  lee. 
And  make  them  sparkle  in  the  bowl  of  bliss. 


J 


NIGHT     VII.  243 


See,  the  third  witness  laughs  at  bliss  remote, 
And  falsely  promises  an  Eden  here  : 
Truth  she  shall  speak  for  once,  though  prone  to  lie, 
A  common  cheat,  and  Pleasure  is  her  name. 
To  Pleasure  never  Avas  Lorenzo  deaf; 
Then  hear  her  now,  now  first  thy  real  friend. 

Since  nature  made  us  not  more  fond  than  proud 
Of  happiness,  (whence  hypocrites  in  joy  ! 
Makers  of  mirth,  artificers  of  smiles !) 
Why  should  the  joy  most  poignant  sense  affords 
Burn  us  with  blushes,  and  rebuke  our  pride  ? — 
Those  heav'n-born  blushes  tell  us  man  descends 
E'en  in  the  zenith  of  his  earthly  bliss  : 
Should  reason  take  her  infidel  repose. 
This  honest  instinct  speaks  our  lineage  high : 
This  instinct  calls  on  darkness  to  conceal 
Our  rapturous  relation  to  the  stalls. 
Our  glory  covers  us  with  noble  shame, 
And  he  that 's  unconfounded  is  unmann'd. 
The  man  that  blushes  is  not  quite  a  brute. 
Thus  far  with  thee,  Lorenzo  !  will  I  close  ; 
Pleasure  is  good,  and  man  foi  pleasure  made  ; 


244  THE     COMPLAINT. 

But  pleasure  full  of  glory,  as  of  joy  : 
Pleasure  which  neither  blushes  nor  expires. 

The  witnesses  are  heard. :  the  cause  is  o'er  ; 
Let  conscience  file  the  sentence  in  her  court, 
Dearer  than  deeds  that  half  a  realm  convey  : 
Thus,  seal'd  by  truth,  th'  authentic  record  runs. 

"Know  all:  know,  infidels, — unapt  to  know! 
'Tis  immortality  your  nature  solves ; 
'Tis  immortality  deciphers  man. 
And  opens  all  the  myst'ries  of  his  make. 
Without  it,  half  his  instincts  are  a  riddle ; 
Without  it.  all  his  virtues  are  a  dream. 
His  very  crimes  attest  his  dignity. 
His  sateless  thirst  of  pleasure,  gold,  and  fame. 
Declares  him  born  for  blessings  infinite : 
What  less  than  infinite  makes  un-absurd 
Passions,  which  all  on  earth  but  more  inflames  ? 
Fierce  passions,  so  mismeasured  to  this  scene, 
Stretch'd  out,  like  eagles'  wings,  beyond  our  nest. 
Far,  far  beyond  the  worth  of  all  below. 
For  earth  too  large,  presage  a  nobler  flight, 
And  evidence  our  title  to  the  skies," 


NIGHT     VII.  245 


Ye  gentle  theologues,  of  calmer  kind ! 
Whose  constitution  dictates  to  your  pen, 
Who,  cold  yourselves,  think  ardor  comes  from  hell ! 
Think  not  our  passions  from  corruption  sprung, 
Though  to  corruption  now  they  lend  their  wings ; 
That  is  their  mistress,  not  their  mother.     All 
(And  justly)  reason  deem  divine  :  I  see, 
I  feel  a  grandeur  in  the  passions  too. 
Which  speaks  their  high  descent,  and  glorious  end : 
Which  speaks  them  rays  of  an  eternal  fire. 
In  Paradise  itself  they  burnt  as  strong. 
Ere  Adam  fell ;  though  wiser  in  their  aim. 
Like  the  proud  Eastern,  struck  by  Providence, 
What  though  our  passions  are  run  mad,  and  stoop. 
With  low,  terrestrial  appetite,  to  graze 
On  trash,  on  toys,  dethroned  from  high  desire  ? 
Yet  still,  through  their  disgrace,  no  feeble  ray 
Of  greatness  shines,  and  tells  us  whence  they  fell : 
But  these,  (like  that  fall'n  monarch  when  reclaimed) 
When  reason  moderates  the  rein  aright. 
Shall  re-ascend,  remount  their  former  sphere. 
Where  once  they  soar'd  illustrious  ;  ere  seduced 


246 


THE     COMPLAINT. 


By  wanton  Eve's  debauch,  to  stroll  on  earth, 
And  set  the  sublunary  world  on  fire. 

But  grant  their  frenzy  lasts ;  their  frenzy  fails 
To  disappoint  one  providential  end. 
For  which  Heav'n  blew  up  ardor  in  our  hearts : 
Were  reason  silent,  boundless  passion  speaks 
A  future  scene  of  boundless  objects  too. 
And  brings  glad  tidings  of  eternal  day. 
Eternal  da}^ !     'Tis  that  enlightens  all ; 
And  all,  by  that  enlighten'd,  proves  it  sure. 
Consider  man  as  an  immortal  being. 
Intelligible  all ;  and  all  is  great ; 
A  crystalline  transparency  prevails. 
And  strikes  full  lustre  through  the  human  sphere 
Consider  man  as  mortal,  all  is  dark 
And  wretched  ;  reason  weeps  at  the  survey. 

The  learn'd  Lorenzo  cries,  "  And  let  her  weep, 
Weak,  modern  reason :  ancient  times  were  wise. 
Authority,  that  venerable  guide. 
Stands  on  my  part ;  the  famed  Athenian  Porch 
(And  who  for  wisdom  so  renown'd  as  they  ?) 
Denied  this  immortality  to  man." 


NIGHT     VII.  24*7 


I  grant  it ;  but  affirm,  they  proved  it  too. 
A  riddle  this  ! — Have  patience ;  I  '11  explain. 

What  noble  vanities,  what  moral  flights, 
Glitt'ring  through  their  romantic  wisdom's  page. 
Make  us,  at  once,  despise  them,  and  admire ! 
Fable  is  flat  to  these  high-season'd  sires  ; 
They  leave  the  extravagance  of  song  below. 
"  Flesh  shall  not  feel ;  or,  feeling,  shall  enjoy 
The  dagger  or  the  rack  ;  to  them,  alike 
A  bed  of  roses,  or  the  burning  bull." 
In  men  exploding  all  beyond  the  grave. 
Strange  doctrine,  this  ! — As  doctrine,  it  was  strange ; 
But  not,. as  prophecy;  for  such  it  proved. 
And,  to  tlieir  own  amazement,  was  fulfill'd : 
They  feign'd  a  firmness  Christians  need  not  feign. 
The  Christian  truly  triumph'd  in  the  flame ; 
The  Stoic  saw,  in  double  wonder  lost, 
Wonder  at  thera,  and  wonder  at  himself. 
To  find  the  bold  adventures  of  his  thought 
Not  bold,  and  that  he  strove  to  He  in  vain. 

Whence,    then,    those    thoughts  ?     those     tow'ring 
thoughts,  that  flew 


248  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Such   monstrous   heights? — From   instinct    and  from 

pride. 
The  glorious  instinct  of  a  deathless  soul, 
Confus'dly  conscious  of  her  dignity, 
Suggested  truths  they  could  not  understand. 
In  lust's  dominion,  and  in  passion's  storm, 
Truth's  system  broken,  scatter'd  fragments  lay, 
As  hght  in  chaos,  glimm'ring  through  the  gloom  ; 
Smit  with  the  pomp  of  lofty  sentiments. 
Pleased  pride  proclaim'd  what  reason  disbelieved. 
Pride,  like  the  Delphic  priestess,  with  a  swell, 
Raved  nonsense,  destined  to  be  future  sense. 
When  life  immortal  in  full  day  should  shine. 
And  death's  dark  shadows  fly  the  gospel  sun. 
They  spoke,  what  nothing  but  immortal  souls 
Could  speak ;  and  thus  the  truth  they  question'd,  proved. 

Can  then  absurdities,  as  well  as  crimes. 
Speak  man  immortal  ?     All  things  speak  him  so. 
Much  has  been  urged ;  and  dost  thou  call  for  more  ? 
Call ;  and  with  endless  questions  be  distress'd, 
All  unresolvable,  if  earth  is  all. 

"  Why  life  a  moment ;  infinite,  desire  ? 


NIGHT     VII.  249 


Our  wish,  eternity  ?  our  home,  the  grave  ? 
Heav'n's  promise  dormant  hes  in  human  hope ; 
Who  wishes  hfe  immortal,  proves  it  too. 
Why  happiness  pursued,  though  never  found  ? 
Man's  thirst  of  happiness  declares  it  is, 
(For  nature  never  gravitates  to  nought ;) 
That  thirst,  unquench'd,  declares  it  is  not  here. 
My  Lucia,  thy  Clarissa  call  to  thought ; 
Why  cordial  friendship  riveted  so  deep 
As  hearts  to  pierce  at  first,  at  parting,  rend, 
If  friend,  and  friendship,  vanish  in  an  hour  ? 
Is  not  this  torment  in  the  mask  of  joy  ? 
Why  by  reflection  marr'd  the  joys  of  sense  ? 
Why  past  and  future  preying  on  our  hearts. 
And  putting  all  our  present  joys  to  death  ? 
Why  labors  reason  ?     Instinct  were  as  well ; 
Instinct,  far  better ;  what  can  choose,  can  err ; 
0  how  infallible  the  thoughtless  brute  ! 
'Twere  well  his  holiness  were  half  as  sure. 
Reason  with  inclination,  why  at  war  ? 
Why  sense  of  guilt  ?     Why  conscience  up  in  arms  ? 
Conscience  of  guilt,  is  prophecy  of  pain, 


250  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  bosom-counsel  to  decline  the  blow. 
Reason  with  inclination  ne'er  had  jarr'd, 
If  nothing  future  paid  forbearance  here. 
Thus  on — these  and  a  thousand  pleas  uncall'd, 
All  promise,  some  ensure,  a  second  scene  ; 
Which,  were  it  doubtful,  would  be  dearer  far 
Then  all  things  else  most  certain  ;  were  it  false, 
What  truth  on  earth  so  precious  as  the  lie  ? 
This -world  it  gives  us,  let  what  will  ensue  ; 
This  world  it  gives,  in  that  high  cordial,  hope ; 
The  future  of  the  present  is  the  soul : 
How  this  life  groans,  when  sever'd  from  the  next ! 
Poor,  mutilated  wretch,  that  disbelieves  ! 
By  dark  distrust  his  being  cut  in  two, 
In  both  parts  perishes ;  life  void  of  joy, 
Sad  prelude  of  eternity  in  pain  ! 

Couldst  thou  persuade  me,  the  next  life  could  fail 
Our  ardent  wishes,  how  should  I  pour  out 
My  bleeding  heart  in  anguish,  new,  as  deep : 
Oh  with  what  thoughts,  thy  hope,  and  my  despair, 
Abhorr'd  Annihilation  !  blasts  the  soul, 
And  wide  extends  the  bounds  of  human  woe ! 


NIGHT     VII.  251 


Could  I  believe  Lorenzo's  systeig  true, 

In  this  black  channel  would  ray  ravings  run. 

"  Grief  from  the  future  borrow'd  peace,  ere-while. 
The  future  vanish'd  !  and  the  present  pain'd  ! 
Strange  import  of  unprecedented  ill ! 
Fall,  how  profound  !  like  Lucifer's,  the  fall : 
Unequal  fate  !  his  fall,  without  his  guilt ! 
From  where  fond  hope  built  her  pavilion  high, 
The  gods  among,  hurl'd  headlong,  hurl'd  at  once 
To  night !  to  nothing  !  darker  still  than  night. 
If  'twas  a  dream,  why  wake  me,  my  worst  foe  ? 
Lorenzo  !  boastful  of  the  name  of  friend ! 
O  for  delusion !  0  for  error  still  ! 
Could  vengeance  strike  much  stronger  than  to  plant 
A  thinkinor  beino;  in  a  world  like  this. 
Not  over-rich  before,  now  beggar 'd  quite ; 
More  curs'd  than  at  the  fall? — The  sun  goes  out! 
The    thorns    shoot    up !      What    thorns    in    ev'ry 

thought ! 
Why  sense  of  better  ?     It  embitters  worse. 
Why  sense  ?  why  life ;  if  but  to  sigh,  then  sink 
To  what  I  was  ?     Twice  nothing  !  and  much  woe  ! 


252  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Woe  from  Heav'n's   bounties — Woe  from  what  was 

wont 
To  flatter  most,  high  intellectual  pow'rs ! 

"  Thought,   virtue,  knowledge  !    blessings,   by    thy 
scheme 
All  poison'd  into  pains.     First,  knowledge,  once 
My  soul's  ambition,  now  her  greatest  dread. 
To  know  myself,  true  wisdom  ? — N'o,  to  shun 
That  shocking  science,  parent  of  despair ! 
Avert  thy  mirror ;  if  I  see,  I  die. 

**  Know  my  Creator !     Climb  his  blest  abode 
By  painful  speculation,  pierce  the  veil. 
Dive  in  his  nature,  read  his  attributes. 
And  gaze  in  admiration — on  a  foe. 
Obtruding  life,  withholding  happiness  ; 
From  the  full  rivers  that  surround  his  throne, 
Nor  letting  fall  one  drop  of  joy  on  man  : 
Man  gasping  for  one  drop,  that  he  might  cease 
To  curse  his  birth,  nor  envj^  reptiles  more  ! 
Ye  sable  clouds !     Ye  darkest  shades  of  night ! 
Hide  him,  forever  hide  him,  from  my  thought, 


NIGHT     VII.  253 


Once  all  my  comfort ;  source,  and  soul  of  joy ! 
Now  leagued  with  furies,  and  with  thee*  'gainst  me. 

"  Know  his  achievements  !     Study  his  renown ! 
Contemplate  this  amazing  universe. 
Dropt  from  his  hand,  with  miracles  replete  ! 
For  what  ?     'Mid  miracles  of  nobler  name, 
To  find  one  miracle  of  misery  ? 
To  find  the  being  which  alone  can  know 
And  praise  his  works,  a  blemish  on  his  praise  ? 
Through  Nature's  ample  range,  in  thought  to  stroll. 
And  start  at  man,  the  single  mourner  there. 
Breathing  high  hope :    chain'd  down  to  pangs  and 
death  ? 

"  Knowing  is  suflf'ring :  and  shall  virtue  share 
The  sigh  of  knowledge  ? — Virtue  shares  the  sigh. 
By  straining  up  the  steep  of  excellent, 
By  battles  fought,  and  from  temptation  won. 
What  gains  she,  but  the  pang  of  seeing  worth, 
Angehc  worth,  soon  shuffled  in  the  dark 
With  ev'ry  vice,  and  swept  to  brutal  dust  ? 
Merit  is  madness  ;  virtue  is  a  crime ; 
*  Lorenzo. 


254  THE     COMPLAINT. 

A  crime  to  reason,  if  it  costs  us  pain 
Unpaid :  what  pain,  amidst  a  thousand  more, 
To  think  the  most  abandon'd,  after  days 
Of  triumph  o'er  their  betters,  find  in  death 
As  soft  a  pillow,  nor  make  fouler  clay  ! 

"  Duty  ! — Religion  ! — These,  our  duty  done. 
Imply  reward.     Religion  is  mistake. 

Duty ! There  's  none,  but  to  repel  the  cheat. 

Ye  cheats,  away !  ye  daughters  of  my  pride ! 

Who  feign  yourselves  the  fav'iites  of  the  skies : 

Ye  tow'ring  hopes  !  abortive  energies ! 

That  toss  and  struggle  in  my  lying  breast, 

To  scale  the  skies,  and  build  presumptions  there. 

As  I  were  heir  of  an  eternity. 

Vain,  vain  ambitions  !  trouble  me  no  more. 

Why  travel  far  in  quest  of  sure  defeat  ? 

As  bounded  as  my  being,  be  my  wish. 

All  is  inverted,  wisdom  is  a  fool. 

Sense  !  take  the  rein :  blind  passion  drive  us  on  ; 

And  ignorance  !  befriend  us  on  our  way  ; 

Ye  new,  but  truest  patrons  of  our  peace  ! 

Yes ;  give  the  pulse  full  empire ;  live  the  brute. 


NIGHT     VII.  255 


Since  as  the  brute  we  die.     Tlie  sura  of  man, 
Of  god-like  man  !  to  revel  and  to  rot. 

"But  not  on  equal  terms  with  other  brutes : 
Their  revels  a  more  poignant  rehsh  yield. 
And  safer  too ;  they  never  poisons  choose. 
Instinct,  than  reason,  makes  more  wholesome  meals. 
And  sends  all-marring  murmur  far  away. 
For  sensual  life  they  best  philosophize ; 
Theirs,  that  serene  the  sages  sought  in  rain : 
'Tis  man  alone  expostulates  with  Heav'n : 
His,  all  the  pow'r,  and  all  the  cause,  to  mourn. 
Shall  human  eyes  alone  dissolve  in  tears  ? 
And  bleed  in  anguish  none  but  human  hearts  ? 
The  wide-stretch'd  realm  of  intellectual  woe, 
Surpassing  sensual  far,  is  all  our  own. 
In  life  so  fatally  distinguish'd,  why 
Cast  in  one  lot,  confounded,  lurap'd  in  death  ? 

**  Ere  yet  in  being,  was  mankind  in  guilt  ? 
Why  thunder'd  this  pecuHar  clause  against  us. 
All-mortal  and  all-wretched  ? — Have  the  skies 
Reasons  of  state  their  subjects  may  not  scan. 
Nor  humbly  reason,  when  they  sorely  sigh  ? — 


256  THE     COMPLAINT. 

All-mortal,  and  all- wretched ! — 'Tis  too  much ; 
Uparallel'd  in  nature  :  'tis  too  much  ; 
On  being  unrequested  at  thy  hands. 
Omnipotent !  for  I  see  nought  but  pow'r. 

"And  why  see  that  ?     Why  thought  ?     To  toil  and 
eat, 
Then  make  our  bed  in  darkness,  needs  no  thought. 
What  superfluities  are  reas'ning  souls  ! 
0  give  eternity  !  or  thought  destroy. 
But  without  thought  our  curse  were  half  unfelt ; 
Its  blunted  edge  would  spare  the  throbbing  heart ; 
And,  therefore,  'tis  bestow'd.     I  thank  thee.  Reason, 
For  aiding  life's  too  small  calamities. 
And  giving  being  to  the  dread  of  death. 
Such  are  thy  bounties ! — Was  it  then  too  much 
For  me  to  trespass  on  the  brutal  rights  ? 
Too  much  for  Heav'n  to  make  one  emmet  more  ? 
Too  much  for  chaos  to  permit  my  mass 
A  longer  stay  with  essences  unwrought, 
Unfashion'd,  untormented  into  man  ? 
Wretched  preferment  to  this  round  of  pains ! 
Wretched  capacity  of  frenzy,  thought ! 


NIGHT     VII.  257 


Wretched  capacity  of  dying,  life ! 

Life,  thought,  worth,  wisdom,  all  (0  foul  revolt !) 

Once  friends  to  peace,  gone  over  to  the  foe. 

"  Death  then  has  changed  its  nature  too  :  0  death ! 
Come  to  my  bosom,  thou  best  gift  of  heav'n ! 
Best  friend  of  man  !  since  man  is  man  no  more. 
Why  in  this  thorny  wilderness  so  long. 
Since  there  's  no  promis'd  land's  ambrosial  bow*r, 
To  pay  me  with  its  honey  for  my  stings  ? 
If  needful  to  the  selfish  schemes  of  Heav'n 
To  sting  us  sore,  why  mock'd  our  misery  ? 
Why  this  so  sumptuous  insult  o'er  our  heads  ? 
Why  this  illustrious  canopy  display'd  ? 
Why  so  magnificently  lodged  despair  ? 
At  stated  periods,  sure-returning,  roll 
These  glorious  orbs,  that  mortals  may  compute 
Their  length  of  labors,  and  of  pains ;  nor  lose 
Their  misery's  full  measure  ? — Smiles  with  flow'rs, 
And  fruits,  promiscuous,  ever-teeming  earth. 
That  man  may  languish  in  luxurious  scenes, 
And  in  an  Eden  mourn  his  wither'd  joys  ? 
Claim  earth  and  skies  man's  admiration,  due 


258  THE     COMPLAINT. 

For  such  delights  ?     Blest  animals  !  too  wise 
To  wonder ;  and  too  happy  to  complain  ! 

"  Our  doom  decreed  demands  a  mournful  scene 
Why  not  a  dungeon  dark,  for  the  condemn'd  ? 
Why  not  the  dragon's  subterranean  den, 
For  man  to  howl  in  ?     Why  not  his  abode 
Of  the  same  dismal  color  with  his  fate  ? 
A  Thebes,  a  Babylon,  at  vast  expense 
Of  time,  toil,  treasure,  art,  for  owls  and  adders, 
As  congruous,  as  for  man  this  lofty  dome, 
Which  prompts  proud  thought,  and  kindles  high  desire 
If,  from  her  humble  chamber  in  the  dust. 
While  proud  thought  swells,  and  high  desire  inflames. 
The  poor  worm  calls  us  for  her  inmates  there ; 
And,  round  us,  death's  inexorable  hand 
Draws  the  dark  curtain  close  ;  undrawn  no  more. 

"  Undrawn  no  more  ! — Behind  the  cloud  of  death. 
Once  I  beheld  a  sun  :  a  sun  which  gilt 
That  sable  cloud,  and  turn'd  it  all  to  gold : 
How  the  grave 's  alter'd  !     Fathomless  as  hell ! 
A  real  hell  to  those  who  dreamt  of  heav'n. 
Annihilation !  how  it  yawns  before  me  ! 


NIGHT     VII.  259 


Next  moment  I  may  drop  from  thought,  from  sense, 
The  privilege  of  angels,  and  of  worms, 
An  outcast  from  existence  !  and  this  spirit, 
This  all-pervading,  this  all- conscious  soul, 
This  particle  of  energy  divine 
Which  travels  nature,  flies  from  star  to  star. 
And  visits  gods,  and  emulates  their  pow'rs, 
Forever  is  extinguish'd.     Horror  !     Death  ! 
Death  of  that  death  I  fearless  once  survey 'd ! — 
When  horror  universal  shall  descend. 
And  heav'n's  dark  concave  urn  all  human  race, 
On  that  enormous  unrefunding  tomb, 
How  just  this  verse  !  this  monumental  sigh  !" 
Beneath  the  lumber  of  demolish'd  worlds. 
Deep  in  the  rubbish  of  the  gen'ral  wreck. 
Swept  ignominious  to  the  common  mass 
Of  matter  never  dignified  with  life, 
Here  lie  proud  rationals ;  the  sons  of  heav*n 
The  lords  of  earth !  the  property  of  worms  ! 
Beings  of  yesterday,  and  no  to-morrow  ! 
Who  lived  in  terror,  and  in  pangs  expired  ! 
All  gone  to  rot  in  chaos  ;  or,  to  make 


260  THE     COMPLAINT, 


Their  happy  transit  into  blocks  or  brutes, 

Nor  longer  sully  their  Creator's  name. 

Lorenzo,  hear,  pause,  ponder,  and  pronounce. 
Just  is  this  history  ?     If  such  is  man. 
Mankind's  historian,  though  divine,  might  weep : 
And  dares  Lorenzo  smile  ? — I  know  thee  proud : 
For  once  let  pride  befriend  thee :  pride  looks  pale 
At  such  a  scene,  and  sighs  for  something  more. 
Amid  thy  boasts,  presumptions,  and  displays. 
And  art  thou  then  a  shadow  ?  less  than  shade  ? 
A  nothing  ?  less  than  nothing  ?     To  have  been. 
And  not  to  be,  is  lower  than  unborn. 
Art  thou  ambitious  ?     Why,  then,  make  the  worm 
Thine  equal  ?     Runs  thy  taste  of  pleasure  high  ? 
Why  patronize  sure  death  of  ev'ry  joy  ? 
Charm  riches  ?     Why  choose  begg'ry  in  the  grave. 
Of  ev'ry  hope  a  bankrupt !  and  forever  ? 
Ambition,  pleasure,  avarice,  persuade  thee 
To  make  that  world  of  glory,  rapture,  wealth. 
They*  lately  proved,  thy  soul's  supreme  desire. 

What  art  thou  made  of  ?     Rather  how  unmade  ? 
*  In  the  Sixth  Night. 


NIGHT     VII.  261 


Great  Nature's  master-appetite  destroy'd  ! 

Is  endless  life,  and  happiness,  despised  ? 

Or  both  wish'd,  here,  where  neither  can  be  found  ? 

Such  man's  perverse  eternal  war  with  Heav'n ! 

Darest  thou  persist  ?     And  is  there  nought  on  earth, 

But  a  long  train  of  transitory  forms. 

Rising,  and  breaking,  milUons  in  an  hour  ? 

Bubbles  of  a  fantastic  deity,  blown  up 

In  sport,  and  then  in  cruelty  destroy'd  ? 

Oh !  for  what  crime,  unmerciful  Lorenzo ! 

Destroys  thy  scheme  the  whole  of  human  race  ? 

Kind%  fell  Lucifer,  compared  to  thee : 

Oh  !  spare  this  waste  of  being  half  divine : 

And  vindicate  th'  economy  of  heav'n. 

Heav'n  is  all  love  ;  all  joy  in  giving  joy : 
It  never  had  created,  but  to  bless  : 
And  shall  it,  then,  strike  off  the  list  of  hfe 
A  being  blest,  or  worthy  so  to  be  ? 
Heav'n  starts  at  an  annihilating  God. 

Is  that,  all  nature  starts  at,  thy  desire  ? 
Art  such  a  clod  to  wish  thyself  all  clay  ? 
What  is  that  dreadful  wish  ? — The  dying  groan 


262  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Of  nature,  murder'd  by  the  blackest  guilt. 
What  deadly  poison  has  thy  nature  drunk  ? 
To  nature  undebauch'd  no  shock  so  great ; 
Nature's  first  wish  is  endless  happiness  ; 
Annihihation  is  an  after-thought, 
A  monstrous  wish,  unborn  till  virtue  dies. 
And,  oh !  what  depth  of  horror  lies  enclos'd  ! 
For  non-existence  no  man  ever  wish'd. 
But  first,  he  wish'd  the  Deity  destroy'd. 

If  so,  what  words  are  dark  enough  to  draw 
Thy  picture  true  ?     The  darkest  are  too  fair. 
Beneath  what  baleful  planet,  in  what  hour 
Of  desperation,  by  what  fury's  aid. 
In  what  infernal  posture  of  the  soul. 
All  hell  invited,  and  all  hell  in  joy 
At  such  a  birth,  a  birth  so  near  of  kin. 
Did  thy  foul  fancy  whelp  so  black  a  scheme 
Of  hopes  abortive,  faculties  half  blown. 
And  deities  begun,  reduced  to  dust  ? 

There's  nought,  thou  say'st,  but  one  eternal  flux 
Of  feeble  essences,  tumultuous  driven 
Through  time's  rough  billows  into  night's  abyss. 


NIGHT     VII.  263 


Say,  in  this  rapid  tide  of  human  ruin, 

Is  there  no  rock,  on  which  man's  tossing  thought 

Can  rest  from  terror,  dare  his  fate  survey, 

And  boldly  think  it  something  to  be  born  ? 

Amid  such  hourly  wrecks  of  being  fair. 

Is  there  no  central  all-sustaining  base, 

All-realizing,  all- connecting  Pow'r, 

Which,  as  it  call'd  forth  all  things,  can  recall, 

And  force  destruction  to  refund  her  spoil  ? 

Command  the  grave  restore  her  taken  pray  ? 

Bid  death's  dark  vale  its  human  harvest  yield. 

And  earth,  and  ocean,  pay  their  debt  of  man. 

True  to  the  grand  deposit  trusted  there  ? 

Is  there  no  potentate,  whose  out-stretch'd  arm, 

When  rip'ning  time  calls  forth  th'  appointed  hour, 

Pluck'd  from  foul  devastation's  famish'd  maw. 

Binds  present,  past,  and  future,  to  his  throne  ? 

His  throne,  how  glorious,  thus  divinely  graced. 

By  germinating  beings  clust'ring  round ! 

A  garland  worthy  the  divinity  ! 

A  throne,  by  Heav'n's  omnipotence  in  smiles. 

Built  (like  a  Pharos  tow'ring  in  the  waves) 


264  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Amidst  immense  effusions  of  his  love ! 
An  ocean  of  communicated  bliss  ! 

An  all-prolific,  all-preserving  God  ! 
This  were  a  God  indeed. — And  such  is  man, 
As  here  presumed :  he  rises  from  his  fall. 
Think'st  thou  Omnipotence  a  naked  root. 
Each  blossom  fair  of  Deity  destroy'd  ? 
Nothing  is  dead  ;  nay,  nothing  sleeps ;  each  soul. 
That  ever  animated  human  clay, 
Now  wakes  ;  is  on  the  wing ;  and  where,  0  where, 
Will  the  swarm  settle  ! — When  the  trumpet's  call. 
As  sounding  brass,  collects  us  round  heav'n's  throne, 
Conglobed  we  bask  in  everlasting  day, 
(Paternal  splendor)  and  adhere  forever. 
Had  not  the  soul  this  outlet  to  the  skies, 
In  this  vast  vessel  of  the  universe. 
How  should  we  gasp,  as  in  an  empty  void  ! 
How  in  the  pangs  of  famish'd  hope  expire  ! 

How  bright  this  prospect  shines  !    How  gloomy  thine. 
A  trembling  world  !  and  a  devouring  God ! 
Earth,  but  the  shambles  of  Omnipotence  ; 
Heav'n's  face  all  stain'd  with  causeless  massacres 


NIGHT    VII.  265 


Of  countless  millions,  born  to  feel  the  pang 
Of  being  lost.     Lorenzo,  can  it  be  ? 
This  bids  us  shudder  at  the  thoughts  of  life. 
Who  would  be  born  to  such  a  phantom  world. 
Where  nought  substantial,  but  our  misery  ? 
Where  joy  (if  joy)  but  heightens  our  distress, 
So  soon  to  perish,  and  revive  no  more  ? 
The  greater  such  a  joy,  the  more  it  pains. 
A  world,  where  dark,  mysterious  vanity 
Of  good,  and  ill,  the  distant  colors  blends, 
Confounds  all  reason,  and  all  hope  destroys ; 
Reason,  and  hope,  our  sole  asylum  here ! 
A  world,  so  far  from  great  (and  yet  how  great 
It  shines  to  thee  !)  there  's  nothing  real  in  it ; 
Being  a  shadow  !  consciousness  a  dream  ! 
A  dream,  how  dreadful !     Universal  blank 
Before  it,  and  behind  !     Poor  man,  a  spark 
From  non-existence  struck  by  wrath  divine, 
Glitt'ring  a  moment,  nor  that  moment  sure, 
'Midst  upper,  nether,  and  surrounding  night, 
His  sad,  sure^  sudden,  and  eternal  tomb ! 
Lorenzo,  dost  thou  feel  these  arguments  ? 


12 


266  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Or  is  there  nought  but  vengeance  can  be  felt  ? 
How  hast  thou  dared  the  Deity  dethrone  ? 
How  dared  indict  him  of  a  world  like  this  ? 
If  such  the  world,  creation  was  a  crime ; 
For  what  is  crime,  but  cause  of  misery  ? 
Retract,  blasphemer  !  and  unriddle  this, 
Of  endless  arguments,  above,  below, 
Without  us,  and  within,  the  short  result — 
**  If  man 's  immortal,  there  's  a  God  in  heav'n." 

But  wherefore  such  redundancy  ?  such  waste 
Of  argument  ?     One  sets  my  soul  at  rest ; 
One  obvious,  and  at  hand,  and,  oh  ! — at  heart. 
So  just  the  skies,  Philander's  life  so  pain'd, 
His  heart  so  pure  ;  that,  or  succeeding  scenes 
Have  palms  to  give,  or  ne'er  had  he  been  born. 

"  What  an  old  tale  is  this  !"  Lorenzo  cries. — 
I  grant  this  argument  is  old ;  but  truth 
No  years  impair ;  and  had  not  this  been  true, 
Thou  never  hadst  despised  it  for  its  age. 
TiTith  is  immortal  as  thy  soul ;  and  fable 
As  fleeting  as  thy  joys.     Be  wise,  nor  make 


NIGHT     VII.  267 


Heaven's  highest  blessing,  vengeance  ;  0  be  wise  ! 
Nor  make  a  curse  of  immortahty. 

Say,  know'st  thou  what  it  is  ?  or  what  thou  art  ? 
Know'st  thou  th'  importance  of  a  soul  immortal  ? 
Behold  this  midnight  glory  :  worlds  on  worlds  ! 
Amazing  pomp  !     Redouble  this  amaze  ! 
Ten  thousand  add ;  add  twice  ten  thousand  more  ; 
Then  weigh  the  whole ;  one  soul  outweighs  them  all, 
And  calls  th'  astonishing  magnificence 
Of  unintelUgent  creation,  poor. 

For  this,  believe  not  rae ;  no  man  believe  ; 
Trust  not  in  words,  but  deeds ;  and  deeds  no  less 
Than  those  of  the  Supreme ;  nor  his,  a  few ; 
Consult  them  all ;  consulted,  all  proclaim 
Thy  soul's  importance ;  tremble  at  thyself  ; 
For  whom  Omnipotence  has  waked  so  long  : 
Has  waked,  and  work'd,  for  ages  ;  from  the  birth 
Of  nature  to  this  unbelieving  hour. 

In  this  small  province  of  his  vast  domain 
(All  nature  bow,  while  I  pronounce  his  name  !) 
What  has  God  done,  and  not  for  this  sole  end, 
To  rescue  souls  from  death  ?     The  soul's  high  price 


268  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Is  writ  in  all  the  conduct  of  the  skies. 

The  soul's  high  price  is  the  creation's  key. 

Unlocks  its  mysteries,  and  naked  lays 

The  genuine  cause  of  ev'ry  deed  divine : 

That  is  the  chain  of  ages,  which  maintains 

Their  obvious  correspondence,  and  unites 

Most  distant  periods  in  one  blest  design : 

That  is  the  mighty  hinge,  on  which  have  turn'd 

All  revolutions,  whether  we  regard 

The  nat'ral,  civil,  or  religious  world ; 

The  former  tAvo  but  servants  to  the  third  : 

To  that  their  duty  done,  they  both  expire, 

Their  mass  new-cast,  forgot  their  deeds  renown'd  ; 

And  angels  ask,  *'  Where  once  they  shone  so  fair  ?" 

To  lift  us  from  this  abject,  to  sublime ; 
This  flux,  to  permanent ;  this  dark  to  day  ; 
This  foul,  to  pure ;  this  turbid,  to  serene ; 
This  mean,  to  mighty !  for  this  glorious  end 
Th'  Almighty,  rising,  his  long  sabbath  broke : 
The  world  was  made  ;  was  ruin'd  ;  was  restor'd  ; 
Laws  from  the  skies  were  publish'd  ;  were  repeal'd  ; 
On  earth,  kings,  kingdoms,  rose ;  kings,  kingdoms,  fell 


NIGHT     VII.  269 


Famed  sages  lighted  up  the  pagan  world ; 
Prophets  from  Sion  darted  a  keen  glance 
Thro'  distant  age  ;  saints  travell'd  ;  martyrs  bled  ; 
By  wonders  sacred  nature  stood  controll'd ; 
The  hving  were  translated ;  dead  were  raised ; 
Angels,  and  more  than  angels,  came  from  heav'n ; 
And,  Oh  !  for  this,  descended  lower  still ; 
Gilt  was  hell's  gloom  ;  astonish'd  at  his  guest, 
For  one  short  moment  Lucifer  adored : 
Lorenzo  !  and  wilt  thou  do  less  ? — For  this, 
That  hallow'd  page,  fools  scoff  at,  was  inspired. 
Of  all  these  truths'  thrice-venerable  code ! 
Deists,  perform  your  quarantine  !  and  then 
Fall  prostrate  ere  you  touch  it,  lest  you  die. 

Nor  less  intensely  bent  infernal  pow'rs 
To  mar,  than  those  of  light,  this  end  to  gain. 
0  what  a  scene  is  here  ! — Lorenzo,  wake. 
Rise  to  the  thought ;  exert,  expand  thy  soul 
To  take  the  vast  idea :  it  denies 
All  else  the  name  of  great.     Two  warring  worlds ! 
Not  Europe  against  Afric ;  warring  worlds, 
Of  more  than  mortal !  mounted  on  the  wing ! 


270  THE     COMPLAINT. 


On  ardent  wings  of  energy  and  zeal 
High-hov'ring  o'er  this  little  brand  of  strife ! 
This  sublunary  ball — But  strife,  for  what  ? 
In  their  own  cause  conflicting  ?     No ;  in  thine, 
In  man's.     His  single  int'rest  blows  the  flame ; 
His  the  sole  stake  ;  his  fate  the  trumpet  sounds, 
Which  kindles  war  immortal.     How  it  burns  ! 
Tumultuous  swarms  of  deities  in  arms ! 
Force,  force  opposing,  till  the  waves  run  high. 
And  tempest  nature's  universal  sphere. 
Such  opposites  eternal,  steadfast,  stem. 
Such  foes  implacable,  are  Good  and  111 ; 
Yet   man,  vain   man,  would  mediate   peace   between 
them. 
Think  not  this  fiction :  **  There  was  war  in  heav'n." 
From  heav'n's  high  crystal  mountain  where  it  hung, 
Th'  Almighty's  out-stretch'd  arm  took  down  his  bow, 
And  shot  his  indignation  at  the  deep  : 
Re-thunder'd  hell,  and  darted  all  her  fires. 
And  seems  the  stake  of  little  moment  still  ? 
And  slumbers  man,  who  singly  caused  the  storm  ? 
He  sleeps. — And  art  thou  shock'd  at  mysteries  ? 


NIGHT     VII.  2Yl 


The  greatest,  thou.  How  dreadful  to  reflect, 
What  ardor,  care,  and  counsel,  mortals  cause 
In  breasts  divine  !     How  httle  in  their  own ! 

Where'er  I  turn,  how  new  proofs  pour  upon  me  ! 
How  happily  this  wondrous  view  supports 
My  former  argument !     How  strongly  strikes 
Immortal  hfe's  full  demonstration  here  ! 
Why  this  exertion  ?     Why  this  strange  regard 
From  Heav'n's  Omnipotence  indulged  to  man  ? 
Because,  in  man,  the  glorious,  dreadful  power, 
Extremely  to  be  pain'd,  or  blest,  forever. 
Duration  gives  importance ;  swells  the  price. 
An  angel,  if  a  creature  of  a  day. 
What  would  he  be  ?     A  trifle  of  no  weight ; 
Or  stand,  or  fall ;  no  matter  which ;  he  's  gone. 
Because  immortal,  therefore  is  mdulged 
This  strange  regard  of  deities  to  dust. 
Hence,  heav'n  looks  down  on  earth  with  all  her  eyes : 
Hence,  the  soul's  mighty  moment  in  her  sight : 
Hence,  ev'ry  soul  has  partisans  above. 
And  every  thought  a  critic  in  the  skies : 
Hence,  clay,  vile  clay !  has  angels  for  its  guard. 


272  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  ev'iy  guard  a  pasdon  for  his  charge  : 
Hence,  from  all  age,  the  cabinet  divine 
Has  held  high  counsel  o'er  the  fate  of  man. 

Nor  have  the  clouds  those  gracious  counsels  hid. 
Angels  undrew  the  curtain  of  the  throne, 
And  Providence  came  forth  to  meet  mankind : 
In  various  modes  of  emphasis,  and  awe, 
He  spoke  his  will,  and  trembling  nature  heard ; 
He  spoke  it  loud,  in  thunder,  and  in  storm. 
Witness,  thou  Sinai !  whose  cloud- covered  height, 
And  shaken  basis,  own'd  the  present  God : 
Witness,  ye  billows  !  whose  returning  tide. 
Breaking  the  chain  that  fasten'd  it  in  air. 
Swept  Egypt,  and  her  menaces,  to  hell : 
Witness,  ye  flames !  th'  Assyrian  tyrant  blew 
To  sev'nfold  rage,  as  impotent,  as  strong : 
And  thou,  earth  !  witness,  whose  expanding  jaws 
Closed  o'er*  Presumption's  sacrilegious  sons  : 
Has  not  each  element,  in  turn,  subscrib'd 
The  soul's  high  price,  and  sworn  it  to  the  wise  ? 
Has  not  flame,  ocean,  ether,  earthquake,  strove 
*  Korah,  &c. 


NIGHT     VII.  273 


To  strike  this  truth  through  adamantine  man  ? 

If  not  all  adamant,  Lorenzo  !  hear  ; 

All  is  delusion,  nature  is  wrapt  up. 

In  tenfold  night,  from  reason's  keenest  eye  ; 

There  's  no  consistence,  meaning,  plan,  or  end, 

In  all  beneath  the  sun,  in  all  above, 

(As  far  as  man  can  penetrate)  or  heaven 

Is  an  immense,  inestimable  prize ; 

Or  all  is  nothing,  or  that  prize  is  all. — 

And  shall  each  toy  be  still  a  match  for  heaven  ? 

And  full  equivalent  for  groans  below  ? 

Who  would  not  give  a  trifle  to  prevent 

What  he  would  give  a  thousand  worlds  to  cure  ? 

Lorenzo  !  thou  hast  seen  (if  thine,  to  see) 
All  nature,  and  her  God  (by  nature's  course. 
And  nature's  course  controll'd)  declare  for  me  : 
The  skies  above  proclaim  "  immortal  man !" 
And,  "  man  immortal !"  all  below  resounds. 
The  world  's  a  system  of  theology. 
Read  by  the  greatest  strangers  to  the  schools ; 
If  honest,  learn'd;  -and  sages  o'er  a  plough. 
Is  not,  Lorenzo,  then,  imposed  on  thee 


12* 


274  THE     COMPLAINT. 

This  hard  alternative  ;  or  to  renounce 
Thy  reason,  and  thy  sense ;  or,  to  believe  ? 
What  then  is  unbelief  ?     'Tis  an  exploit ; 
A  strenuous  enterprise  :  to  gain  it,  man 
Must  burst  through  ev'ry  bar  of  common  sense. 
Of  common  shame,  magnanimously  wrong. 
And  what  rewards  the  sturdy  combatant  ? 
His  prize,  repentance  ;  infamy,  his  crown. 

But  wherefore  infamy  ? — For  want  of  worth, 
Down  the  steep  precipice  of  wrong  he  slides  ; 
There  's  nothmg  to  support  him  in  the  right. 
Faith  in  the  futm-e  wanting,  is  at  least 
In  embryo,  ev'ry  weakness,  ev'ry  guilt ; 
And  strong  temptation  ripens  it  to  birth. 
If  this  life's  gain  invites  him  to  the  deed, 
Why  not  his  country  sold,  his  father  slain  ? 
'Tis  virtue  to  pursue  our  good  supreme ; 
And  his  supreme,  his  only  good,  is  here. 
Ambition,  av'rice,  by  the  wise  disdain'd. 
Is  perfect  wisdom,  while  mankind  are  fools. 
And  think  a  turf  or  tomb-stone  covers  all : 
These  find  employment,  and  provide  for  sense 


NIGHT     VII.  275 


A  riclier  pasture,  and  a  larger  range  ; 
And  sense  by  right  divine  ascends  the  throne. 
When  reason's  prize  and  prospect  are  no  more  : 
Virtue  no  more  we  think  the  will  of  Heav'n. 
Would  Heav'n  quite  beggar  virtue,  if  belov'd  ? 

*  Has  virtue  charms  ?' — I  grant  her  heav'nly  fair: 
But  if  unportion'd,  all  will  int'rest  wed  ; 
Though  that  our  admiration,  this  our  choice. 
The  virtues  grow  on  immortality  ! 
That  root  destroy'd,  they  wither  and  expire. 
A  Deity  belie v'd  will  nought  avail ; 
Rewards  and  punishments  make  God  adored ; 
And  hopes  and  fears  give  conscience  all  her  pow*r. 
As  in  the  dying  parent  dies  the  child. 
Virtue  with  immortality  expires. 
Who  tells  me  he  denies  his  soul  immortal, 
Whate'er  his  boast,  has  told  me,  he 's  a  knave. 
His  duty  'tis  to  love  himself  alone  ; 
Nor  care,  though  mankind  perish,  if  he  smiles. 
Who  thinks  ere  long  the  man  shall  wholly  die. 
Is  dead  already  ;  nought  but  brute  survives. 

And  are  there  such  ? — Such  candidates  there  are 


2Y6  THE     COMPLAINT. 

For  more  than  death ;  for  utter  loss  of  being, 
Being,  the  basis  of  the  Deity  ! 
Ask  you  the  cause  ? — The  cause  they  will  not  tell : 
Nor  need  they  :  Oh,  the  sorceries  of  sense  ! 
They  work  this  transformation  on  the  soul, 
Dismount  her  like  the  serpent  at  the  fall, 
Dismount  her  from  her  native  wing  (which  soar'd 
Ere-while  ethereal  heights)  and  throw  her  down. 
To  lick  the  dust,  and  crawl  in  such  a  thought. 

Is  it  in  words  to  paint  you  ?     0  ye  fall'n  ! 
Fall'n  from  the  wings  of  reason,  and  of  hope  ! 
Erect  in  stature,  prone  in  appetite  ! 
Patrons  of  pleasure,  posting  into  pain ! 
Lovers  of  argument,  averse  to  sense  ! 
Boasters  of  liberty,  fast  bound  in  chains ! 
Lords  of  the  wide  creation,  and  the  shame  ! 
More  senseless  than  th'  irrationals  you  scorn  ! 
More  base  than  those  you  rule  !  than  those  you  pity. 
Far  more  undone  !  O  ye  most  infamous 
Of  beings,  from  superior  dignity  ! 
Deepest  in  woe,  from  means  of  boundless  bliss  ; 
Ye  curst  by  blessings  infinite  !  because 


NIGHT     VII, 


277 


Most  highly  favor'd,  most  profoundly  lost ! 
Ye  motley  mass  of  contradiction  strong  ! 
And  are  you,  too,  convinced  your  souls  fly  off 
In  exhalation  soft,  and  die  in  air. 
From  the  full  flood  of  evidence  against  you  ? 
^n  the  coarse  drudgeries  and  sinks  of  sense, 
Your  souls  have  quite  worn  out  the  make  of  heav'n, 
By  vice  new  cast,  and  creatures  of  your  own  : 
But  though  you  can  deform,  you  can't  destroy ; 
To  curse,  not  uncreate,  is  all  your  power.  -    - 

Lorenzo,  this  black  brotherhood  renounce ; 
Renounce  St.  Evremont,  and  read  St.  Paul. 
Ere  rapt  by  miracle,  by  reason  wing'd, 
His  mounting  mind  made  long  abode  in  heav*n. 
This  is  free  thinking,  unconfined  to  parts. 
To  send  the -soul,  on  curious  travel  bent, 
Through  all  the  provinces  of  human  thought ; 
To  dart  her  flight  through  the  whole  sphere  of  man  ; 
Of  this  vast  universe  to  make  the  tour ; 
In  each  recess  of  space,  and  time,  at  home : 
Familiar  with  their  wonders  ;  diving  deep. 
And,  like  a  prince  of  boundless  int'rests  there. 


2*78  THE     COM  r  LAIN  T. 

Still  most  ambitious  of  the  most  remote : 
To  look  on  truth  unbroken,  and  entire ; 
Truth  in  the  system,  the  full  orb ;  where  truths 
By  truths  enlighten'd,  and  sustain'd,  afford 
An  arch-like  strong  foundation,  to  support 
Th'  incumbent  weight  of  absolute,  complete 
Conviction :  here  the  more  we  press,  we  stand 
More  firm  ;  who  most  examine,  most  believe. 
Parts,  like  half-sentences,  confound  :  the  whole 
Conveys  the  sense,  and  God  is  understood ; 
Who  not  in  fragments  writes  to  human  race : 
Read  his  whole  volume.  Sceptic  !  then  reply. 

This,  this,  is  thinking  free,  a  thought  that  grasps 
Beyond  a  grain,  and  looks  beyond  an  hour. 
Turn  up  thine  eye,  survey  this  midnight  scene : 
What  are  earth's  kingdoms,  to  yon  boundless  orbs, 
Of  human  souls,  one  day,  the  destined  range  ? 
And  what  yon  boundless  orbs  to  Godlike  man  ? 
Those  num'rous  worlds  that  throng  the  firmament, 
And  ask  more  space  in  heav'n,  can  roll  at  large 
In  man's  capacious  thought,  and  still  kave  room 
For  ampler  orbs,  for  new  creations,  thei  e. 


NIGHT     VII.  279 


Can  such  a  soul  contract  itself,  to  gripe 
A  point  of  no  dimension,  of  no  weight  ? 
It  can  ;  it  does  :  the  world  is  such  a  point, 
And,  of  that  point,  how  small  a  part  enslaves  ? 

How  small  a  part — of  nothing,  shall  I  say  ? 
Why  not  ? — ^friends,  our  chief  treasure,  how  they  drop ! 
Lucia,  Narcissa  fair,  Philander,  gone  ! 
The  grave,  like  fabled  Cerberus,  has  op'd 
A  triple  mouth ;  and,  in  an  awful  voice, 
Loud  calls  my  soul,  and  utters  all  I  sing. 
How  the  world  falls  to  pieces  round  about  us. 
And  leaves  us  in  a  ruin  of  our  joy  ! 
What  says  this  transportation  of  my  friends  ? 
It  bids  me  love  the  place  where  now  they  dwell, 
And  scorn  this  wretched  spot,  they  leave  so  poor. 
Eternity's  vast  ocean  lies  before  thee  ; 
There,  there,  Lorenzo  !  thy  Clarissa  sails. 
Give  thy  mind  sea-room ;  keep  it  wide  of  earth. 
That  rock  of  souls  immortal ;  cut  thy  cord  ; 
Weigh  anchor  :  spread  thy  sails  ;  call  ev'ry  wind ; 
Eye  thy  great  Pole-star ;  make  the  land  of  life. 

Two  kinds  of  life  has  double-natured  man. 


280  THE      COMPLAINT. 

And  two  of  death ;  the  last  far  more  severe. 
Life  animal  is  nurtur'd  by  the  sun ; 
Thrives  on  his  bounties,  triumphs  in  his  beams. 
Life  rational  subsists  on  higher  food, 
Triumphant  in  His  beams  who  made  the  day. 
When  we  leave  that  sun,  and  are  left  by  this, 
(The  fate  of  all  who  die  in  stubborn  guilt,) 
'Tis  utter  darkness,  strictly  double  death. 
We  sink  by  no  judicial  stroke  of  Heav'n, 
But  nature's  course  ;  as  sure  as  plummets  fall. 
Since  God,  or  man,  must  alter  ere  they  meet 
(For  light  and  darkness  blend  not  in  one  sphere) 
'Tis  manifest,  Lorenzo  !  who  must  change. 

If,  then,  that  double  death  should  prove  thy  lot. 
Blame  not  the  bowels  of  the  Deity  ; 
Man  shall  be  blest,  as  far  as  man  permits. 
Not  man  alone,  all  rationals,  heav'n  arms 
With  an  illustrious,  but  tremendous,  power 
To  counteract  its  ow^n  most  gracious  ends ; 
And  this,  of  strict  necessity,  not  choice  ; 
That  power  denied,  men,  angels,  were  no  more, 
But  passive  engines,  void  of  praise,  or  blame. 


NIGHT     VII.  281 


A  nature  rational  implies  the  power 

Of  being  blest,  or  wretched,  as  we  please ; 

Else  idle  Reason  would  have  nought  to  do  ; 

And  he  that  would  be  barr'd  capacity 

Of  pain,  courts  incapacity  of  bliss. 

Heav'n  wills  our  happiness,  allows  our  doom ; 

Invites  us  ardently,  but  not  compels  ; 

Heav'n  but  persuades,  almighty  man  decrees  ; 

Man  is  the  maker  of  immortal  fates. 

Man  falls  by  man,  if  finally  he  falls ; 

And  fall  he  must,  who  learns  from  death  alone, 

The  dreadful  secret, — that  he  lives  forever. 

Why  this  to  thee  ?     Thee  yet,  perhaps,  in  doubt 
Of  second  life  ?     But  wherefore  doubtful  still  ? 
Eternal  life  is  nature's  ardent  wish  ? 
What  ardently  we  wish,  we  soon  believe : 
Thy  tardy  faith  declares  that  wish  destroyed  : 
What  has  destroy'd  it  ?— Shall  I  tell  thee,  what  ? 
When  fear'd  the  future,  'tis  no  longer  wish'd ; 
And,  when  unwish'd,  we  strive  to  disbelieve. 
"  Thus  infidelity  our  guilt  betrays." 
Nor  that  the  sole  detection  !  blush,  Lorenzo ! 


282  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Blush  for  hypocrisy,  if  not  for  guilt. 

The  future  fear'd  ?     An  infidel,  and  fear ! 

Fear  what  ?  a  dream  ?  a  fable  ? — How  thy  dread, 

Unwilling  evidence,  and  therefore  strong, 

Affords  my  cause  an  undesign'd  support ! 

How  disbelief  affirms,  what  it  denies ! 

"  It,  unawares,  asserts  immortal  life." — 

Surprising !     Infidehty  turns  out 

A  creed,  and  a  confession  of  our  sins : 

Apostates,  thus,  are  orthodox  divines. 

Lorenzo !  with  Lorenzo  clash  no  more ; 
Nor  longer  a  transparent  vizor  wear. 
Think'st  thou,  religion  only  has  her  mask  ? 
Our  infidels  are  Satan's  hypocrites. 
Pretend  the  worst,  and,  at  the  bottom,  fail. 
When  visited  by  thought,  (thought  will  intrude), 
Like  him  they  serve,  they  tremble,  and  believe. 
Is  there  hypocrisy  so  foul  as  this  ? 
So  fatal  to  the  welfare  of  the  world  ? 
What  detestation,  what  contempt,  their  due  ? 
And,  if  unpaid,  be  thank'd  for  their  escape 
That  Christian  candor  they  strive  hard  to  scorn. 


NIGHT     VII.  283 


If  not  for  that  asylum,  they  might  find 
A  hell  on  earth ;  nor  'scape  a  worse  below. 

With  insolence  and  impotence  of  thought, 
Instead  of  racking  fancy,  to  refute, 
Reform  thy  manners,  and  the  truth  enjoy. — 
But  shall  I  dare  confess  the  dire  result  ? 
Can  thy  proud  reason  brook  so  black  a  brand  ? 
Fl-om  purer  manners,  to  sublimer  faith, 
Is  nature's  unavoidable  ascent ; 
An  honest  deist,  where  the  gospel  shines, 
Matur'd  to  nobler,  in  the  Christian  ends. 
When  that  blest  change  arrives,  e'en  cast  aside 
This  song  superfluous  ;  life  immortal  strikes 
Conviction,  in  a  flood  of  light  divine. 
A  Christian  dwells,  like  Uriel,*  in  the  sun ; 
Meridian  evidence  puts  doubt  to  flight ; 
And  ardent  hope  anticipates  the  skies. 
Of  that  bright  sun,  Lorenzo  !  scale  the  sphere ; 
'Tis  easy ;  it  invites  thee  ;  it  descends 
From  heaven  to  woo,  and  waft  thee  whence  it  came : 
Read  and  revere  the  sacred  page ;  a  page 
*  Milton. 


284  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Where  triumphs  immortahty ;  a  page 
Which  not  the  whole  creation  could  produce ; 
Which  not  the  conflagration  shall  destroy ; 
In  nature's  ruin's  not  one  letter  lost : 
'Tis  printed  in  the  mind  of  gods  forever. 

In  proud  disdain  of  what  e'en  gods  adore, 
Dost  smile  ? — Poor  wretch !  thy  guardian  angel  weeps. 
Angels,  and  men,  assent  to  what  I  sing ; 
Wits  smile,  and  thank  me  for  my  midnight  dream. 
How  vicious  hearts  fume  phrensy  to  the  brain  ? 
Parts  push  us  on  to  pride,  and  pride  to  shame ; 
Pert  infidelity  is  wit's  cockade, 
To  grace  the  brazen  brow  that  braves  the  skies. 
By  loss  of  being,  dreadfully  secure. 
Lorenzo  !  if  thy  doctrine  wins  the  day. 
And  drives  my  dreams,  defeated,  from  the  field ; 
If  this  is  all,  if  earth  a  final  scene. 
Take  heed ;  stand  fast ;  be  sure  to  be  a  knave ; 
A  knave  in  grain !  ne'er  deviate  to  the  right : 
Shouldst  thou  be  good — how  infinite  thy  loss ! 
Guilt  only  makes  annihilation  gain. 
Blest  scheme  !  which  life  deprives  of  comfort,  death 


NIGHT     VII.  285 


Of  hope ;  and  which  vice  only  recommends. 
If  so  ;  where,  infidels  !  your  bait  thrown  out 
To  catch  weak  converts  ?     Where  your  lofty  boast 
Of  zeal  for  virtue,  and  of  love  to  man  ? 
Annihilation  !  I  confess,  in  these. 

What  can  reclaim  you  ?     Dare  I  hope  profound 
Philosophers  the  converts  of  a  song  ? 
Yet  know,  its  title*  flatters  you,  not  me  ! 
Yours  be  the  praise  to  make  my  title  good ; 
Mine,  to  bless  Heav'n,  and  triumph  in  your  praise. 
But  since  so  pestilential  your  disease, 
Though  sov'reign  is  the  med'cine  I  prescribe, 
As  yet,  I'll  neither  triumph  nor  despair : 
But  hope,  ere  long  my  midnight  dream  will  wake 
Your  hearts,  and  teach  your  wisdom — to  be  wise : 
For  why  should  souls  immortal,  made  for  bliss. 
E'er  wish  (and  wish  in  vain !)  that  souls  could  die  ? 
What  ne'er  can  die.  Oh  !  grant  to  live ;  and  crown 
The  wish,  and  aim,  and  labor  of  the  skies ; 
Increase,  and  enter  on  the  joys  of  heaven  : 
Thus  shall  my  title  pass  a  sacred  seal, 
*  The  Infidel  Reclaimed. 


286  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Receive  an  imprimatur  from  above, 
While  angels  shout — An  Infidel  Reclaim'd  ! 
To  close,  Lorenzo  !  ^pite  of  all  my  pains. 
Still  seems  it  strange,  that  thou  shouldst  live  forever  ? 
Is  it  less  strange,  that  thou  shouldst  live  at  all  ? 
This  is  a  miracle ;  and  that  no  more. 
Who  gave  beginning,  can  exclude  an  end. 
Deny  thou  art :  then,  doubt  if  thou  shalt  be. 
A  miracle,  with  miracles  inclos'd. 
Is  man :  and  starts  his  faith  at  what  is  strange  ? 
What  less  than  wonders,  from  the  wonderful ; 
What  less  than  miracles,  from  God,  can  flow  ? 
Admit  a  God — that  mystery  supreme  ! 
That  cause  uncaus'd  !     All  other  wonders  cease ; 
Nothing  is  marvellous  for  Him  to  do : 
Deny  Him — all  is  mystery  besides ; 
Millions  of  mysteries !     Each  darker  far 
Than  that  thy  wisdom  would,  unwisely,  shun. 
If  weak  thy  faith,  why  choose  the  harder  side  ? 
We  nothing  know,  but  what  is  marvellous ; 
Yet  what  is  marvellous,  we  can't  beheve. 
So  weak  our  reason,  and  so  great  our  God, 


NIGHT     VII.  287 


What  most  surprises  in  the  sacred  page, 

Or  full  as  strange,  or  stranger,  must  be  true. 

Faith  is  not  reason's  labor,  but  repose. 

To  faith,  and  virtue,  why  so  backward,  man  ? 
From  hence  : — The  present  strongly  strikes  us  all ; 
The  future,  faintly :    Can  we,  then,  be  men  ? 
If  men,  Lorenzo  !  tlie  reverse  is  right. 
Reason  is  man's  peculiar ;  sense,  the  brute's. 
The  present  is  the  scanty  realm  of  sense ; 
The  future,  reason's  empire  unconfin'd ; 
On  that  expending  all  her  godlike  power. 
She  plans,  provides,  expatiates,  triumphs,  there ; 
There,  builds  her  blessings  ;  there,  expects  her  praise  ; 
And  nothing  asks  of  fortune,  or  of  men. 
And  what  is  reason  ?     Be  she,  thus,  defin'd  ; 
Reason  is  upright  stature  in  the  soul. 
Oh !  be  a  man  ; — and  strive  to  be  a  god. 

"For  what?  (thou  sayst) :    To  damp   the  joys  of 
life  ?" 
Ko ;  to  give  heart  and  substance  to  thy  joys. 
That  tyrant,  hope  ;  mark,  how  she  domineers  ; 
She  bids  us  quit  realities,  for  dreams ; 


288  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Safety,  and  peace,  for  hazard,  and  alarm  ; 

That  tyrant  o'er  the  tyrants  of  the  soul. 

She  bids  ambition  quit  its  taken  prize. 

Spurn  the  luxuriant  branch  on  which  it  sits, 

Tho'  bearing  crowns,  to  spring  at  distant  game ; 

And  plunge  in  toils,  and  dangers — for  repose. 

If  hope  precarious,  and  of  things,  when  gain'd. 

Of  little  moment,  and  as  little  stay, 

Can  sweeten  toils  and  dangers  into  joys  ; 

What  then,  that  hope,  which  nothing  can  defeat, 

Our  leave  unask'd  ?     Rich  hope  of  boundless  bliss  ! 

Bliss,  past  man's  pow'r  to  paint  it ;  time's,  to  close  ! 

This  hope  is  earth's  most  estimable  prize : 
This  is  man's  portion,  while  no  more  than  man : 
Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  befriends  us  here  ; 
Passions  of  prouder  name  befriend  us  less. 
Joy  has  her  tears  ;  and  transport  has  her  death  ; 
Hope,  like  a  cordial,  innocent,  tho'  strong, 
Man's  heart,  at  once,  inspirits,  and  serenes ; 
Nor  makes  him  pay  his  wisdom  for  his  joys ; 
'Tis  all,  our  present  state  can  safely  bear.. 
Health  to  the  frame !  and  vigor  to  the  mind  ! 


NIGHT     VII.  289 


And  to  the  modest  eye  chastis'd  delight ! 
Like  the  fair  summer-ev'ning,  mild,  and  sweet ! 
'Tis  man's  full  cup  ;  his  paradise  below  ! 

A  blest  hereafter,  then,  or  hop'd,  or  gain'd, 
Is  all ; — our  whole  of  happiness  :  full  proof, 
I  chose  no  trivial  or  inglorious  theme. 
And  know,  ye  foes  to  song  !  (well-meaning  men, 
Tho'  quite  forgotten*  half  your  Bible's  praise !) 
Important  truths,  in  spite  of  verse  may  please : 
Grave  minds  you  praise ;  nor  can  you  praise  too  much 
If  there  is  weight  in  an  eternity. 
Let  the  grave  Hsten ; — and  be  graver  still. 


*  The  poetical  parts  of  it. 


13 


NIGHT  VIII 

VIRTUE'S  APOLOGY ;  OR,  THE  MAN  OF  THE 
WORLD  ANSWERED. 


THE    LOVE  OF    THIS  LIFE THE   AMBITION  AND  PLEASURE, 

WITH    THE    WIT    AND    WISDOM,  OF    THE    WORLD. 

And  has  all  nature,  then,  espous'd  my  part  ? 

Have  I  brib'd  heav'n,  and  earth,  to  plead  against  thee  ? 

And  is  thy  soul  immortal  ?     What  remains  ? 

All,  all,  Lorenzo !     Make  immortal  blest. 

Unblest  immortals  !     What  can  shock  us  more  ? 

And  yet,  Lorenzo  still  affects  the  world ; 

There,  stows  his  treasui-e ;  thence,  his  title  draws, 

Man  of  the  world  !  (for  such  wouldst  thou  be  call'd) 

And  art  thou  proud  of  that  inglorious  style  ? 

Proud  of  reproach  ?  for  a  reproach  it  was. 

In  ancient  days ;  and  Christian, — in  an  age. 

When  men  were  men,  and  not  asham'd  of  heaven, 


NIGHT     VIII.  291 


Fir'd  their  ambition,  as  it  crown'd  their  joy. 
Sprinkled  with  dews  from  the  CastaUan  font, 
Fain  would  I  re-baptize  thee,  and  confer 
A  purer  spirit,  and  a  nobler  name. 

Thy  fond  attachments  fatal,  and  inflam'd. 
Point  out  my  path,  and  dictate  to  my  song  : 
To  thee,  the  world  bow  fair  !  how  strongly  strikes 
Ambition !  and  gay  pleasure  stronger  still ! 
Thy  triple  bane !  the  triple  bolt,  that  lays 
Thy  virtue  dead  !  be  these  my  triple  theme  ; 
Nor  shall  thy  wit,  or  wisdom,  be  forgot. 

Common  the  theme ;  not  so  the  song ;  if  she 
My  song  invokes,  Urania,  deigns  to  smile. 
The  charm  that  chains  us  to  the  world,  her  foe, 
If  she  dissolves,  the  man  of  earth,  at  once. 
Starts  from  his  trance,  and  sighs  for  other  scenes ; 
Scenes,  where  these  sparks  of  night,  these  stars,  shall 

shine 
Unuumber'd  suns,  (for  all  things,  as  they  are, 
The  blest  behold)  ;  and,  in  one  glory,  pour 
Their  blended  blaze  on  man's  astonish'd  sight ; 
A  blaze, — the  least  illustrious  object  there. 


292  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Lorenzo  !  since  eternal  is  at  hand, 
To  swallow  time's  ambitions  ;  as  the  vast 
Leviathan,  the  bubbles  vain,  that  ride 
High  on  the  foaming  billow ;  what  avail 
High  titles,  high  descent,  attainments  high. 
If  unattain'd  our  highest  ?     0  Lorenzo  ! 
What  lofty  thoughts  these  elements  above. 
What  tow'ring  hopes,  what  sallies  from  the  sun. 
What  grand  surveys  of  destiny  divine, 
And  pompous  presage  of  unfathom'd  fate. 
Should  roll  in  bosoms,  where  a  spirit  burns. 
Bound  for  eternity  !    In  bosoms  read 
By  Him,  who  foibles  in  archangels  sees ! 
On  human  hearts  He  bends  a  jealous  eye. 
And  marks,  and  in  heav'n's  register  inrolls. 
The  rise,  and  progress,  of  each  option  there ; 
Sacred  to  doomsday !  that  the  page  unfolds. 
And  spreads  us  to  the  gaze  of  gods  and  men. 

And  what  an  option,  O  Lorenzo  !  thine  ? 
This  Avorld  !  and  this,  unrivall'd  by  the  skies  ! 
A  world,  where  lust  of  pleasure,  grandeur,  gold, 
Three  demons,  that  divide  its  realms  between  them. 


NIGHT     VIII.  293 


With  strokes  alternate  buffet  to  and  fro 
Man's  restless  heart,  their  sport,  their  flying  ball ; 
Till,  with  the  giddy  circle,  sick,  and  tir'd, 
It  pants  for  peace,  and  drops  into  despair. 
Such  is  the  world  Lorenzo  sets  above 
That  glorious  promise  angels  were  esteem'd 
Too  mean  to  bring ;  a  promise  their  ador'd 
Descended  to  communicate,  and  press. 
By  counsel,  miracle,  hfe,  death,  on  man. 
Such  is  the  world  Lorenzo's  wisdom  woos. 
And  on  its  thorny  pillow  seeks  repose ; 
A  pillow,  which,  like  opiates  ill-prepar'd, 
Intoxicates,  but  not  composes  ;  fills 
The  visionary  mind  with  gay  chimeras. 
All  the  wild  trash  of  sleep,  without  the  rest ; 
What  unfeign'd  travel,  and  what  dreams  of  joy  ? 
How  frail,  men,  things  !  how  momentary  both  ! 
Fantastic  chase,  of  shadows  hunting  shades  ! 
The  gay,  the  busy,  equal,  tho'  unlike ; 
Equal  in  wisdom,  differently  wise  ! 
Through  flow'ry  meadows,  and  through  dreary  wastes, 
One  bustling,  and  )ne  dancing,  into  death. 


294  THE      COMPLAINT. 

There  's  not  a  day,  but,  to  the  man  of  thought. 
Betrays  some  secret,  that  throws  new  reproach 
On  life,  and  makes  him  sick  of  seeing  more. 
The  scenes  of  business  tell  us — "  what  ai-e  men  ;" 
The  scenes  of  pleasure — "  what  is  all  beside  ;" 
There,  others  we  despise ;  and  here,  ourselves. 
Amid  disgust  eternal,  dwells  dehght  ? 
'Tis  approbation  strikes  the  string  of  joy. 

What  wondrous  prize  has  kindled  this  career, 
Stuns  with  the  din,  and  chokes  us  with  the  dust. 
On  life's  gay  stage  one  inch  above  the  grave  ? 
The  proud  run  up  and  down  in  quest  of  eyes ; 
The  sensual  in  pursuit  of  something  worse ; 
The  grave,  of  gold,  the  politic,  of  power ; 
And  all,  of  other  butterflies,  as  vain  ! 
As  eddies  draw  things  frivolous,  and  light. 
How  is  man's  heart  by  vanity  drawn  in  ; 
On  the  swift  circle  of  returning  toys, 
Whirl'd,  straw-like,  round    and   round,  and  then   in- 

gulph'd, 
Where  gay  delusion  darkens  to  despair ! 

"  This  is  a  beaten  track."     Is  this  a  track 


NIGHT     VIII.  295 


Should  not  be  beaten  ?     Never  beat  enough, 
Till  enough  learnt  the  truths  it  would  inspire. 
Shall  truth  be  silent  because  folly  frowns  ? 
Turn  the  world's  history ;  what  find  we  there, 
But  fortune's  sports,  or  nature's  cruel  claims. 
Or  woman's  artifice,  or  man's  revenge. 
And  endless  inhumanities  on  man  ? 
Fame's  trumpet  seldom  sounds,  but,  like  the  knell, 
It  brings  bad  tidings  :  how  it  hourly  blows 
Man's  misadventures  round  the  list'nino-  world  ! 

o 

Man  is  the  tale  of  narrative  old  time : 

Sad  tale !  which  high  as  Paradise  begins ; 

As  if  the  toil  of  travel  to  delude. 

From  stage  to  stage,  in  his  eternal  round. 

The  days,  his  daughters,  as  they  spin  our  hours 

On  fortune's  wheel,  where  accident  unthought 

Oft,  in  a  moment,  snaps  life  strongest  thread, 

Each,  in  her  turn,  some  tragic  story  tells. 

With,  nov/  and  then,  a  wretched  farce  between; 

And  fills  his  chronicle  with  human  woes. 

Time's  daughters,  true  as  those  of  men  deceive  us 
Not  one,  but  puts  some  cheat  on  all  mankind  ; 


296  THE     COMPLAINT. 

While  in  their  father's  bosom,  not  yet  ours, 

They  flatter  our  fond  hopes  ;  and  promise  much 

Of  amiable  ;  but  hold  him  not  o'er-wise, 

Who  dares  to  trust  them ;  and  laugh  round  the  year, 

At  still  confiding,  still  confounded,  Man, 

Confiding,  tho'  confounded ;  hoping  on. 

Untaught  by  trial,  unconvinc'd  by  proof. 

And  ever  looking  for  the  never  seen. 

Life  to  the  last,  like  hardened  felons,  hes  ; 

Nor  owns  itself  a  cheat,  till  it  expires. 

Its  little  joys  go  out  by  one  and  one. 

And  leave  poor  man,  at  length,  in  perfect  night ; 

Night  darker,  than  what,  now,  involves  the  pole. 

0  Thou,  who  dost  permit  these  ills  to  fall. 
For  gracious  ends,  and  wouldst,  that  man  should  mourn ! 
0  Thou,  whose  hand  this  goodly  fabric  fram'd. 
Who  know'st  it  best,  and  wouldst  that  man  should  know ! 
What  is  this  sublunary  world  ?     A  vapor ; 
A  vapor  all  it  holds  ;  itself,  a  vapor ; 
From  the  damp  bed  of  chaos,  by  thy  beam 
Exhal'd,  ordain'd  to  swim  its  destin'd  hour 
In  ambient  air,  then  melt,  and  disappear. 


NIGHT     VIII.  297 


Earth's  days  are  number'd,  nor  remote  her  doom  ; 
As  mortal,  tho'  less  transient,  than  her  sons ; 
Yet  they  doat  on  her,  as  the  world  and  they 
Were  both  eternal,  solid  ;  Thou,  a  dream. 

They  doat,  on  what  ?  immortal  views  apart, 
A  region  of  outsides  !  a  land  of  shadows  ! 
A  fruitful  field  of  flow'ry  promises  ! 
A  wilderness  for  joys  !  perplex'd  with  doubts. 
And  sharp  with  thorns !  a  troubled  ocean,  spread 
With  bold  adventurers,  their  all  on  board ; 
ISTo  second  hope,  if  here  their  fortune  frowns  ; 
Frown  soon  it  must.     Of  various  rates  they  fail. 
Of  ensigns  various  ;  all  alike  in  this, 
All  restless,  anxious  ;  toss'd  with  hopes,  and  fears, 
In  calmest  skies  ;  obnoxious  all  to  storm  ; 
And  stormy  the  most  gen'ral  blast  of  life  : 
All  bound  for  happiness  ;  yet  few  provide 
The  chart  of  knowledge,  pointing  where  it  lies ; 
Or  virtue's  helm,  to  shape  the  course  design'd  : 
All,  more  or  less,  capricious  fate  lament, 
Now  lifted  by  the  tide,  and  now  resorb'd, 
And  farther  from  their  wishes,  than  before  ; 


13^ 


298  THE     COMPLAINT. 


All,  more  or  less,  against  each  other  dash, 
To  mutual  hurt,  by  gusts  of  passion  driven, 
And  sufF'ring  more  from  folly,  than  from  fate. 

Ocean  !  thou  dreadful,  and  tumultuous  home 
Of  dangers,  at  eternal  war  with  man ! 
Death's  capital,  where  most  he  domineers, 
With  all  his  chosen  terrors  frowning  round, 
(Tho'  lately  feasted  high  at  Albion's*  cost) 
Wide  op'ning,  and  loud  roaring  still  for  more  ! 
Too  faithful  mirror !  how  dost  thou  reflect 
The  melancholy  face  of  human  life  ! 
The  strong  resemblance  tempts  me  farther  still : 
And,  haply,  Britain  may  be  deeper  struck 
By  moral  truth,  in  such  a  mirror  seen. 
Which  nature  holds  forever  at  her  eye. 

Self-flatter'd,  unexperienc'd,  high  in  hope, 
When  young,  with  sanguine  cheer,  and  streamers  gay, 
We  cut  our  cable,  launch  into  the  world, 
And  fondly  dream  each  wind  and  star  our  friend  ; 
All,  in  some  darling  enterprize  embark'd  : 
But  where  is  he  can  fathom  its  event  ? 


*  Admiral  Balchen,  &c. 


NIGHT     VIII.  299 


Amid  a  multitude  of  artless  hands, 
Ruin's  sure  perquisite  !  her  lawful  prize  ! 
Some  steer  aright ;  but  the  black  blast  blows  hard, 
And  puffs  them  wide  of  hope :  with  hearts  of  proof. 
Full  against  wind,  and  tide,  some  win  their  way  ; 
And  when  strong  effort  has  deserv'd  the  port, 
And  tug^'d  it  into  view,  'tis  won !  'tis  lost ! 
Tho'  strong  their  oar,  still  stronger  is  their  fate  ; 
They  strike  ;  and  while  they  triumph,  they  expire. 
In  stress  of  weather,  most ;  some  sink  outright ; 
O'er  them,  and  o'er  their  names,  the  billows  close ; 
To-morrow  knows  not  they  were  ever  born. 
Others  a  short  memorial  leave  behind, 
Like  a  flag  floating,  when  the  bark's  ingulfed ; 
It  floats  a  moment,  and  is  seen  no  more : 
One  Cfesar  lives ;  a  thousand  are  forgot. 
How  few,  beneath  auspicious  planets  born, 
(Darlings  of  providence  !  fond  fate's  elect!) 
With  swelling  sails  make  good  the  promis'd  port. 
With  all  their  wishes  freighted !     Yet  ev'n  these. 
Freighted  with  all  their  wishes,  soon  complain ; 
Free  fi'om  misfortune,  not  from  nature  free, 


300  THE     COMPLAINT. 

They  still  are  men  ;  and  when  is  man  secure  ? 
As  fatal  time  ;  as  storm !  the  rush  of  years 
Beats  down  their  strength ;  their  numberless  escapes 
In  ruin  end  :  and,  now,  their  proud  success 
But  plants  new  terrors  on  the  victor's  brow : 
What  pain  to  quit  the  world,  just  made  their  own, 
Their  nest  so  deeply  down'd,  and  built  so  high ! 
Too  low  they  build,  who  build  beneath  the  stars. 

Wo  then  apart  (if  wo  apart  can  be 
From  mortal  man),  and  fortune  at  our  nod. 
The  gay  !  rich  !  great !  triumphant !  and  august ! 
What  are  they  ? — The  most  happy  (strange  to  sa)'  !) 
Convince  me  most  of  human  misery  : 
What  are  they  ?  sraihng  wretches  of  to-morrow  ! 
More  wretched,  then,  than  e'er  their  slave  can  be ; 
Their  treach'rous  blessings,  at  the  day  of  need. 
Like  other  faithless  friends,  unmask,  and  sting : 
Then,  what  provoking  Indigence  in  wealth  ! 
What  aggravated  impotence  in  power  ! 
High  titles,  then,  what  insult  of  their  pain ! 
If  that  sole  anchor,  equal  to  the  waves, 
Immortal  hope !  defies  not  the  rude  storm, 


NIGHT     VIII.  301 


Takes  comfort  from  the  foaming  billow's  rage. 
And  makes  a  welcome  harbor  of  the  tomb. 

This  is  a  sketch  of  what  thy  soul  admires  : 
**  But  here  (thou  sayst)  the  miseries  of  life 
Are  huddled  in  a  group.     A  more  distinct 
Survey,  perhaps,  might  bring  thee  better  news." 
Look  on  life's  stages  ;  they  speak  plainer  still ; 
The  plainer  they,  the  deeper  wilt  thou  sigh. 
Look  on  thy  lovely  boy ;  in  him  behold 
The  best  that  can  befall  the  best  on  earth ; 
The  boy  has  virtue  by  his  mother's  side : 
Yes,  on  Florello  look ;  a  father's  heart 
Is  tender,  tho'  the  man's  is  made  of  stone ; 
The  truth,  through  such  a  medium  seen,  may  make 
Impression  deep,  and  fondness  prove  thy  friend. 

Florello  lately  cast  on  this  rude  coast 
A  helpless  infant ;  now  a  heedless  child  ; 
To  poor  Clarissa's  throes,  thy  care  succeeds : 
Care  full  of  love,  and  yet  severe  as  hate  ! 
O'er  thy  soul's  joy  how  oft  thy  fondness  frowns  ! 
Needful  austerities  his  will  restrain ; 
As  thorns  fence  in  the  tender  plant  from  harm. 


802  THE     COMPLAIJ^T, 

As  yet,  his  reason  cannot  go  alone  ; 
But  asks  a  sterner  nurse  to  lead  it  on. 
His  little  heart  is  often  terrified  ; 
The  blush  of  morning,  in  his  cheek,  turns  pale 
Its  pearly  dew-drop  trembles  in  his  eye ; 
His  harmless  eye !  and  drowns  an  angel  there. 
Ah  !  what  avails  his  innocence  ?  the  task 
Enjoin'd  must  discipline  his  early  powers ; 
He  learns  to  sigh,  ere  he  is  known  to  sin  : 
Guiltless !  and  sad,  a  wretch  before  the  fall ! 
How  cruel  this  !  more  cruel  to  forbear. 
Our  nature  such,  with  necessary  pains. 
We  purchase  prospects  of  precarious  peace : 
Tho'  not  a  father,  this  might  steal  a  sigh. 
Suppose  him  disciplin'd  aright  (if  not, 
'Twill  sink  our  poor  account  to  poorer  still) ; 
Ripe  from  the  tutor,  proud  of  liberty. 
He  leaps  inclosure,  bounds  into  the  world  ; 
The  world  is  taken,  after  ten  years'  toil. 
Like  ancient  Troy;  and  all  its  joys  his  own. 
Alas  !  the  world  's  a  tutor  more  severe  ; 
Its  lessons  hard,  and  ill  deserve  his  pains ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  303 

Unteaching  all  his  virtuous  nature  taught, 
Or  books  (fair  virtue's  advocates  !)  inspir'd. 

For  who  receives  him  mto  public  life  ? 
Men  of  the  world,  the  terrae-filial  breed, 
Welcome  the  modest  stranger  to  their  sphere, 
Which  glitter'd  long,  at  distance,  in  his  sight. 
And,  in  their  hospitable  arms,  inclose : 
Men,  who  think  nous^ht  so  stronj^  of  the  romance, 
So  rank  knight-errant,  as  a  real  friend : 
Men,  that  act  up  to  reason's  golden  rule. 
All  weakness  of  affection  quite  subdued  : 
Men,  that  would  blush  at  being  thought  sincere, 
And  feign,  for  glory,  the  few  faults  they  want ; 
That  love  a  lie,  where  truth  would  pay  as  well ; 
As  if,  to  them,  vice  shone  her  own  reward. 

Lorenzo  !  canst  thou  bear  a  shocking  sight  ? 
Such,  for  Florello's  sake,  'twill  now  appear : 
See,  the  steel'd  files  of  season' d  veterans, 
Train'd  to  the  world,  in  burnish'd  falsehood  bright ; 
Deep  in  the  fatal  stratagems  of  peace ; 
All  soft  sensation,  in  the  throng,  rubb'd  off; 
All  their  keen  purpose,  in  politeness,  sheath'd ; 


304  THE     COMPLAINT. 

His  friends  eternal — during  interest ; 

His  foes  implacable — when  worth  their  while  ; 

At  war  with  ev'ry  welfare,  but  their  own  ; 

As  wise  as  Lucifer,  and  half  as  good  ; 

And  by  whom,  none,  but  Lucifer,  can  gain — 

Naked,  through  these  (so  common  fate  ordains), 

Naked  of  heart,  his  cruel  course  he  runs. 

Stung  out  of  all,  most  amiable  in  life, 

Prompt  truth,  and  open  thought,  and  smiles  unfeigned  ; 

Affection,  as  his  species,  wide  diffused  ; 

Noble  piesumptions  to  mankind's  renown; 

Ingenuous  trust,  and  confidence  of  love. 

Those  claims  to  joy  (if  mortals  joy  might  claim) 
Will  cost  him  many  a  sigh  ;  till  time,  and  pains, 
From  the  slow  mistress  of  this  school.  Experience, 
And  her  assistant,  pausing,  pale.  Distrust, 
Purchase  a  dear-bought  clue  to  lead  his  youth. 
Through  serpentine  obliquities  of  life. 
And  the  dark  labyrinth  of  human  hearts. 
And  happy  !  if  the  clue  shall  come  so  cheap ; 
For,  while  we  learn  to  fence  with  pubhc  guilt. 
Full  oft  we  feel  its  foul  contagion  too, 


NIGHT     VIII.  30i 


If  less  than  heav'nly  virtue  is  our  guard. 
Thus,  a  strange  kind  of  curst  necessity- 
Brings  down  the  sterling  temper  of  his  soul, 
By  base  alloy,  to  bear  the  current  stamp. 
Below  call'd  wisdom  ;  sinks  him  into  safety ; 
And  brands  him  into  credit  with  the  world  ; 
Where  specious  titles  dignify  disgrace, 
And  nature's  injuries  are  arts  of  life  ; 
Where  brighter  reason  prompts  to  bolder  crimes ; 
And  heav'nly  talents  make  infernal  hearts ; 
That  unsurmountable  extreme  of  guilt ! 

Poor  Machiavel !  who  labor'd  hard  his  plan. 
Forgot,  that  genius  needs  not  go  to  school ; 
Forgot,  that  man,  without  a  tutor  wise. 
His  plan  had  practis'd,  long  before  'twas  writ. 
The  world  's  all  title-page,  there  's  no  contents ; 
The  world  's  all  face ;  the  man  who  shows  his  heart, 
Is  hooted  for  his  nudities,  and  scorn'd, 
A  man  I  knew,  who  hv'd  upon  a  smile ; 
And  well  it  fed  him  ;  he  look'd  plump  and  fair  ; 
While  rankest  venom  foam'd  through  ev'ry  vein. 
Lorenzo  !  what  I  tell  thee,  take  not  ill ! 


306  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Living,  he  fawn'd  on  ev'ry  fool  alive ; 

And,  dying,  curs'd  the  friend  on  whom  he  liv'd. 

To  such  proficients  thou  art  half  a  saint. 

In  foreign  realms  (for  thou  hast  travel'd  far) 

How  curious  to  contemplate  two  state  rooks, 

Studious  their  nests  to  feather  in  a  trice. 

With  all  the  necromantics  of  their  art. 

Playing  the  game  of  faces  on  each  other, 

Making  court  sweet-meats  of  their  latent  gall, 

In  foolish  hope,  to  steal  each  other's  trust ; 

Both  cheating,  both  exulting,  both  deceiv'd ; 

And,  sometimes,  both  (let  earth  rejoice)  undone ! 

Their  parts  we  doubt  not ;  but  be  that  their  shame ; 

Shall  men  of  talents,  fit  to  rule  mankind. 

Stoop  to  mean  wiles,  that  would  disgrace  a  fool  ? 

And  lose  the  thanks  of  those  few  friends  they  serve  ? 

For  who  can  thank  the  man  he  cannot  see  ? 

Why  so  much  cover?     It  defeats  itself. 
Ye,  that  know  all  things !  know  ye  not,  men's  hearts 
Are  therefore  known,  because  they  are  conceal'd  ? 
For  why  conceal'd? — The  cause  they  need  not  tell. 
I  give  him  joy,  that 's  awkward  at  a  lie  ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  307 

Whose  feeble  nature  truth  keeps  still  in  awe ; 
His  incapacity  is  his  renown, 
"lis  great,  'tis  manly,  to  disdain  disguise  ; 
It  shows  our  spirit,  or  it  proves  our  strength. 
Thou  say'st,  'Tis  needful :  Is  it  therefore  right  ? 
Howe'er,  I  grant  it  some  small  sign  of  grace, 
To  strain  at  an  excuse :    And  wouJdst  thou  then 
Escape  that  cruel  need  ?     Thou  mayst,  with  ease ; 
Think  no  post  needful  that  demands  a  knave. 
When  late  our  civil  helm  was  shifting  hands. 
So  P thought :    Think  better,  if  you  can. 

But  this,  how  rare !  the  public  path  of  hfe 
Is  dirty : — Yet,  allow  that  dirt  its  due, 
It  makes  the  noble  mind  more  noble  still : 
The  world  's  no  neuter ;  it  will  wound  or  save ; 
Our  virtue  quench,  or  indignation  fire. 
You  say,  the  world,  well  known,  will  make  a  man : — 
The  world,  well  known,  will  give  our  hearts  to  heaven, 
Or  make  us  demons,  long  before  we  die. 

To  show  how  fair  the  world,  thy  mistress,  shmes, 
Take  either  part,  sure  ills  attend  the  choice ; 
Suj*e,  tho'  not  equal,  detriment  ensues. 


808  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Not  virtue-self  is  deified  on  earth ; 

Virtue  has  her  relapses,  conflicts,  foes  ; 

Foes,  that  ne'er  fail  to  make  her  feel  their  hate. 

Virtue  has  her  peculiar  set  of  pains  ; 

True ;  friends  to  virtue,  last,  and  least,  complain ; 

But  if  they  sigh,  can  others  hope  to  smile  ? 

If  wisdom  has  her  miseries  to  mourn. 

How  can  poor  folly  lead  a  happy  life  ? 

And  if  both  suffer,  what  has  earth  to  boast. 

Where  he  most  happy  who  the  least  laments  ? 

Where  much,  much  patience,  the  most  envied  state. 

And  some  forgiveness,  needs  the  best  of  ffiends  ? 

For  friend,  or  happy  life,  who  looks  not  higher, 

Of  neither  shall  he  find  the  shadow  here. 

The  world's  sworn  advocate,  without  a  fee, 
Lorenzo  smartly,  with  a  smile,  replies : 
*'  Thus  far  thy  song  is  right ;  and  all  must  own 
Virtue  has  her  peculiar  set  of  pains — 
And  joys  peculiar  who  to  vice  denies  ? 
If  vice  it  is,  with  nature  to  comply : 
If  pride,  and  sense,  are  so  predominant. 
To  check,  not  overcome  them,  makes  a  saint, 


IGHT     VIII.  309 


Can  nature  in  a  plainer  voice  proclaim 
Pleasure,  and  glory,  the  chief  good  of  man  ?" 

Can  pride,  and  sensuality,  rejoice  ? 
From  purity  of  thought,  all  pleasure  springs ; 
And,  from  an  humble  spirit,  all  our  peace. 
Ambition,  pleasure  !  let  us  talk  of  these  : 
Of  these,  the  porch,  and  academy,  talk'd  ; 
Of  these,  each  following  age  had  much  to  say ; 
Yet  unexhausted,  still,  the  needful  theme. 
Who  talks  of  these,  to  mankind  all  at  once 
He  talks ;  for  where  the  saint  from  either  free  ? 
Are  these  thy  refuge  ? — No ;  these  rush  upon  thee  ; 
Thy  vitals  seize,  and  vulture-like,  devour : 
I'll  try,  if  I  can  pluck  thee  from  thy  rock, 
Prometheus  !  from  this  barren  ball  of  earth  ; 
If  reason  can  unchain  thee,  thou  art  free. 

And,  first,  thy  Caucasus,  ambition  calls ; 
Mountain  of  torments  !  eminence  of  woes  ! 
Of  courted  woes  !  and  courted  through  mistake  ! 
'Tis  not  ambition  charms  thee ;  'tis  a  cheat 

Will  make  thee  start,  as  H at  his  Moor. 

Dost  graps  at  greatness  ?  first,  know  what  it  is  : 


310  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Think'st  thou  thy  greatness  in  distinction  Hes  ? 

Not  in  the  feather,  wave  it  e'er  so  high, 

By  fortune  stuck,  to  mark  us  from  the  throng, 

Is  glory  lodg'd :  'tis  lodg'd  in  the  reverse  ; 

In  that  which  joins,  in  that  which  equals,  all. 

The  monarch,  and  his  slave ; — "  A  deathless  soul, 

Unbounded  prospect,  and  immortal  kin, 

A  father  God,  and  brothers  in  the  skies ;" 

Elder,  indeed,  in  time ;  but  less  remote 

In  excellence,  perhaps,  than  thought  by  man ; 

Why  greater  what  can  fall,  than  what  can  rise  ? 

If  still  delirious,  now,  Lorenzo  !  go ; 
And  with  thy  full-blown  brothers  of  the  world, 
Throw  scorn  around  thee ;  cast  it  on  thy  slaves  ; 
Thy  slaves,  and  equals  :  how  scorn  cast  on  them 
Rebounds  on  thee  I  if  man  is  mean,  as  man. 
Art  thou  a  God  ?  if  fortune  makes  him  so. 
Beware  the  consequence  :  a  maxim  that, 
Which  draws  a  monstrous  picture  of  mankind, 
Where,  in  the  drapery,  the  man  is  lost ; 
Externals  flutt'ring,  and  the  soul  forgot. 


NIGHT     VIII.  311 


Thy  greatest  glory  when  dispos'd  to  boast, 
Boast  that  aloud,  in  which  thy  servants  share. 
We  wisely  strip  the  steed  we  mean  to  buy ; 
Judge  we,  in  their  caparisons,  of  men  ? 
It  nought  avails  thee,  where,  but  what,  thou  art ; 
All  the  distinctions  of  this  little  life 
Are  quite  cutaneous,  foreign  to  the  man. 
When  through  death's  straits  earth's  subtile  serpents 

creep. 
Which  wrigrprle  into  wealth,  or  climb  renown. 
As  crooked  Satan  the  forbidden  tree, 
They  leave  their  party-color'd  robe  behind, 
All  that  now  glitters,  while  they  rear  aloft 
Their  brazen  crests,  and  hiss  at  us  below. 
Of  fortune's  fucus  strip  them,  yet  alive ; 
Strip  them  of  body,  too;  nay,  closer  still, 
Away  with  all,  but  moral,  in  their  minds ; 
And  let,  what  then  remains,  impose  their  name. 
Pronounce  them  weak,  or  worthy ;  great,  or  mean. 
How  mean  that  snuff  of  glory  fortune  lights. 
And  death  puts  out !  dost  thou  demand  a  test, 
A  test  at  once,  infallible,  and  short. 


312  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Of  real  greatness  ?  that  man  greatly  lives, 
Whate'er  his  fate,  or  fame,  who  greatly  dies ; 
High-flush'd  with  hope,  where  heroes  shall  despair. 
If  this  a  true  criterion,  many  courts. 
Illustrious,  might  afford  but  few  grandees. 

Th'  Almighty,  from  his  throne,  on  earth  surveys 
Nought  greater,  than  an  honest,  humble  heart ; 
An  humble  heart,  his  residence !  pronounc'd 
His  second  seat ;  and  rival  to  the  skies. 
The  private  path,  the  secret  acts  of  men, 
If  noble,  far  the  noblest  of  our  lives  ! 
How  far  above  Lorenzo's  glory  sits 
Th'  illustrious  master  of  a  name  unknown; 
Whose  worth  unrivall'd,  and  unwitness'd,  loves 
Life's  sacred  shades,  where  gods  converse  with  men ; 
And  peace,  beyond  the  world's  conception,  smiles ! 
As  thou  (now  dark),  before  we  part,  shalt  see. 

But  thy  great  soul  this  skulking  glory  scorns. 
Lorenzo  's  sick,  but  when  Lorenzo  's  seen ; 
And,  when  he  shrugs  at  public  business,  lies. 
Denied  the  public  eye,  the  public  voice, 
As  if  he  liv'd  on  others'  breath,  he  dies. 


NIGHT     VIII.  313 


Fain  would  he  make  the  world  his  pedestal ; 
Mankind  the  gazers,  the  sole  figure,  he. 
Knows  he,  that  mankind  praise  against  their  will, 
And  mix  as  much  detraction  as  they  can  ? 
Knows  he,  that  faithless  fame  her  whisper  has, 
As  well  as  trumpet  ?  that  his  vanity 
Is  so  much  tickled  from  not  hearing  all  ? 
Knows  this  all-knower,  that  from  itch  of  praise. 
Or,  from  an  itch  more  sordid,  when  he  shines, 
Taking  his  country  by  five  hundred  ears, 
Senates  at  once  admire  him,  and  despise, 
With  modest  laughter  lining  loud  applause, 
Which  makes  the  smile  more  mortal  to  his  fame  ? 
His  fame,  which  (like  the  mighty  Caesar),  crown'd 
With  laurels,  in  full  senate,  greatly  falls. 
By  seeming  friends,  that  honor,  and  destroy. 
We  rise  in  glory,  as  we  sink  in  pride 
Where  boasting  ends,  there  dignity  begins  : 
And  yet,  mistaken  beyond  all  mistake. 
The  blind  Lorenzo  's  proud — of  being  proud  ; 
And  dreams  himself  ascending  in  his  fall. 

An  eminence,  though  fancied,  turns  the  brain ; 


14 


314  THE     COMPLAINT. 

All  vice  wants  hellebore  ;  but,  of  all  vice. 
Pride  loudest  calls,  and  for  the  largest  bowl ; 
Because,  all  other  vice  unlike,  it  flies, 
In  fact,  the  point,  in  fancy  most  pursued. 
Who  court  applause,  oblige  the  world  in  this ; 
They  gratify  man's  passion  to  refuse. 
Superior  honor,  when  assumed,  is  lost ; 
Ev'n  good  men  turn  banditti,  and  rejoice, 
Like  Kouli-Kan,  in  plunder  of  the  proud. 

Tho'  somewhat  disconcerted,  steady  still 
To  the  world's  cause,  with  half  a  face  of  joy, 
Lorenzo  cries — "  Be,  then,  ambition  cast ; 
Ambition's  dearer  far  stands  unimpeach'd, 
Gay  pleasure !  proud  ambition  is  her  slave ; 
For  her,  he  soars  at  great,  and  hazards  ill ; 
For  her,  he  fights,  and  bleeds,  or  overcomes  ; 
And  paves  his  way,  with  crowns,  to  reach  her  smile'; 
Who  can  resist  her  charms  ?" — or,  should  ?     Lorenzo  ! 
What  mortal  shall  resist,  where  angels  yield  ? 
Pleasure  's  the  mistress  of  ethereal  powers  ; 
For  her  contend  the  rival  gods  above  ; 
Pleasure  's  the  mistress  of  the  world  below ; 


IS'IGHTVIII.  315 


And  well  it  is  for  man,  that  pleasure  charms ; 

How  would  all  stagnate,  but  for  pleasure's  ray ! 

How  would  the  frozen  stream  of  action  cease ! 

What  is  the  pulse  of  this  so  busy  world  ? 

The  love  of  pleasure  :  that,  thro'  ev'ry  vein, 

Throws  motion,  warmth  ;  and  shuts  out  death  from  life. 

Tho'  various  are  the  tempers  of  mankind, 
Pleasure's  gay  family  holds  all  in  chains : 
Some  most  affect  the  black  ;  and  some,  the  fair ; 
Some  honest  pleasure  court ;  and  some,  obscene. 
Pleasures  obscene  are  various,  as  the  throng 
Of  passions,  that  can  err  in  human  hearts  ; 
Mistake  their  objects,  or  transgress  their  bounds. 
Think  you  there  's  but  one  whoredom  ?  whoredom,  all, 
But  when  our  reason  licenses  delight. 
Dost  doubt,  Lorenzo  ?  thou  shalt  doubt  no  more. 
Thy  father  chides  thy  gallantries ;  yet  hugs 
An  ugly,  common  harlot,  in  the  dark. 
A  rank  adulterer  with  others'  gold  ; 
And  that  hag,  vengeance,  in  a  corner,  charms. 
Hatred  her  brothel  has,  as  well  as  love, 
Where  horrid  epicures  debauch  in  blood. 


316  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Whate'er  the  motive,  pleasure  is  the  mark  ; 

For  her,  the  black  assassin  draws  his  sword ; 

For  her,  dark  statesmen  trim  their  midnight  lamp, 

To  which  no  single  sacrifice  may  fall  ; 

For  her,  the  saint  abstains ;  the  miser  starves ; 

The  stoic  proud,  for  pleasure,  pleasure  scorn'd ; 

For  her,  affliction's  daughters  grief  indulge, 

And  find,  or  hope,  a  luxury  in  tears  ; 

For  her,  guilt,  shame,  toil,  danger,  we  defy ; 

And,  with  an  aim  voluptuous,  rush  on  death. 

Thus  universal  her  despotic  power. 

And  as  her  empire  wide,  her  praise  is  just. 
Patron  of  pleasure  !  doater  on  delight ! 
I  am  thy  rival ;  pleasure  I  profess  ; 
Pleasure,  the  purpose  of  my  gloomy  song. 
Pleasure  is  nought  but  virtue's  gayer  name ; 
I  wrong  her  still,  I  rate  her  worth  too  low ; 
Virtue  the  root,  and  pleasure  is  the  flower ; 
And  honest  Epicurus'  foes  were  fools. 

But  this  sounds  harsh,  and  gives  the  wise  offence 
If  o'erstrain'd  wisdom  still  retains  the  name. 
How  knits  austerity  her  cloudy  brow. 


NIGHT    viir.  317 


And  blames,  as  bold,  and  hazardous,  the  praise 
Of  pleasure,  to  mankind,  unprais'd,  too  dear ! 
Ye  modern  stoics  !  hear  my  soft  reply  ; 
Their  senses  men  will  trust ;  we  can't  impose ; 
Or,  if  we  could,  is  imposition  right  ? 
Own  honey  sweet ;  but,  owning,  add  this  sting  ; 
"  When  mix'd  with  poison,  it  is  deadly  too." 
Truth  never  was  indebted  to  a  lie. 
Is  nought  but  virtue,  to  be  prais'd,  as  good  ? 
"Why  then  is  health  preferr'd  before  disease  ? 
What  natui-e  loves  is  good,  without  our  leave. 
And  where  no  future  drawback  cries,  "  beware ;" 
Pleasure,  though  not  from  virtue,  should  prevail. 
'Tis  balm  to  life,  and  gratitude  to  heaven ; 
How  cold  our  thanks  for  bounties  unenjoy'd  ! 
The  love  of  pleasure  is  man's  eldest  born, 
Born  in  his  cradle,  living  to  his  tomb ; 
Wisdom,  her  younger  sister,  tho'  more  grave. 
Was  meant  to  minister,  and  not  to  mar, 
Imperial  pleasure,  queen  of  human  hearts. 
Lorenzo  !  thou,  her  majesty's  renown'd, 
Tho'  uncoift,  counsel,  learned  in  the  world ! 


318  THE      COMPLAINT. 

Who  think'st  thyself  a  Murray,  with  disdain 
Mayst  look  on  me.     Yet,  my  Demosthenes  ! 
Canst  thou  plead  pleasure's  cause  as  well  as  I  ? 
Know'st  thou  her  nature,  purpose,  parentage  ? 
Attend  my  song,  and  thou  shalt  know  them  all ; 
And  know  thyself ;  and  know  thyself  to  be 
(Strange  truth !)  the  most  abstemious  man  alive. 
Tell  not  Calista ;  she  will  laugh  thee  dead ; 

Or  send  thee  to  her  hermitage  with  L . 

Absurd  presumption !     Thou,  who  never  knew'st 
A  serious  thought !  shalt  thou  dare  dream  of  joy  ? 
No  man  e'er  found  a  happy  life  by  chance, 
Or  yawn'd  il  into  being,  with  a  wish  ; 
Or,  with  the  snout  of  grov'ling  appetite, 
E'er  smelt  it  out,  and  grubb'd  it  from  the  dirt. 
An  art  it  is,  and  must  be  learnt ;  and  learnt 
With  unremitting  effort,  or  be  lost ; 
And  leave  us  perfect  blockheads  in  our  bliss.    • 
The  clouds  may  drop  down  titles  and  estates  ; 
Wealth  may  seek  us,  but  wisdom  must  be  sought  ; 
Sought  before  all ;  but  (how  unlike  all  else 
We  seek  on  earth  !)  'tis  never  sought  in  vain. 


NIGHT     VIII.  319 


First,  pleasure's  birth,  rise,  strength,  and  grandeur 
see: 
Brought  forth  by  wisdom,  nurs'd  by  discipline, 
By  patience  taught,  by  perseverance  crown'd. 
She  rears  her  head  majestic  ;  round  her  throne    • 
Erected  in  the  bosom  of  the  just. 
Each  virtue,  lifted,  forms  her  manly  guard. 
For  what  are  virtues  ?  (formidable  name  !) 
What,  but  the  fountain,  or  defence,  of  joy  ? 
Why  then  commanded  ?  need  mankind  commands, 
At  once  to  merit,  and  to  make,  their  bliss  ? — 
Great  Legislator  !  scarce  so  great,  as  kind  ! 
If  men  are  rational,  and  love  delight, 
Thy  gracious  law  but  flatters  human  choice; 
In  the  transgression  lies  the  penalty ; 
And  they  the  most  indulge  who  most  obey. 

Of  pleasure,  next,  the  final  cause  explore ; 
Its  mighty  purpose,  its  important  end. 
Not  to  turn  human  brutal,  but  to  build 
Divine  on  human,  pleasure  came  from  heaven. 
In  aid  to  reason  was  the  goddess  sent ; 
To  call  up  all  its  strength  by  such  a  charm. 


320  T  H  E     C  O  M  P  L  A  I  N  T . 

Pleasure,  first,  succors  virtue  ;  in  return, 

Virtue  gives  pleasure  an  eternal  reign. 

What,  but  the  pleasure  of  food,  friendship,  faith, 

Supports  life  nat'ral,  civil,  and  divine  ? 

'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  repast,  we  live ; 

'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  applause,  we  please ; 

'Tis  from  the  pleasure  of  belief,  we  pray 

(All  pray'r  would  cease,  if  unbeliev'd  the  prize)  : 

It  serves  ourselves,  our  species,  and  our  God ; 

And  to  serve  more,  is  past  the  sphere  of  man. 

Glide,  then,  forever,  pleasure's  sacred  stream ! 

Through  Eden  as  Euphrates  ran,  it  runs. 

And  fosters  ev'ry  growth  of  happy  life  ; 

MaKes  a  new  Eden  where  it  flows  ; — but  such 

As  must  be  lost,  Lorenzo!  by  thy  fall. 

"What  mean  I  by  thy  fall  ?"— Thou'lt  shortly  see, 
While  pleasure's  nature  is  at  large  display'd  ; 
Already  sung  her  origin,  and  ends. 
Those  glorious  ends,  by  kind,  or  by  degree. 
When  pleasure  violates,  'tis  then  a  vice, 
And  vengeance  too ;  it  hastens  into  pain. 
From  due  refreshment,  life,  health,  reason,  joy ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  321 


From  wild  excess,  pain,  grief,  distraction,  death ; 

Heav'n's  justice  this  proclaims,  and  that  her  love. 

What  greater  evil  can  I  wish  my  foe. 

Than  his  full  draught  of  pleasure,  from  a  cask 

Unbroach'd  by  just  Authority,  ungaug'd 

By  temperance,  by  reason  unrefin'd  ? 

A  thousand  demons  lurk  within  the  lee. 

Heav'n,  others,  and  ourselves!  uninjur'd  these, 

Drink  deep,  the  deeper,  then,  the  more  divine ; 

Angels  are  angels  from  indulgence  there  ; 

'Tis  unrepenting  pleasure  makes  a  god. 

Dost  think  thyself  a  god  from  other  joys  ? 
A  victim  rather !  shortly  sure  to  bleed. 
The  wrong  must  mourn,  can  Heav'n's  appointment  fail  ? 
Can  man  outwit  Omnipotence  ?  strike  out 
A  self-wrought  happiness  unmeant  by  him 
Who  made  us,  and  the  world  we  would  enjoy  ? 
Who  forms  an  instrument,  ordains  from  whence 
Its  dissonance,  or  harmony,  shall  rise. 
Heav'n  bid  the  soul  this  mortal  frame  inspire ; 
Bid  virtue's  ray  divine  inspire  the  soul 
With  unprecarious  flows  of  vital  joy ; 


822  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And,  without  breathing,  man  as  well  might  hope 
For  life,  as,  without  piety,  for  peace. 

"  Is  virtue,  then,  and  piety  the  same  ?" 
No ;  piety  is  more  ;  'tis  virtue's  source  ; 
Mother  of  ev'ry  worth,  as  that  of  joy. 
Men  of  the  world  this  doctrine  ill  digest ; 
They  smile  at  piety ;  yet  boast  aloud 
Good  will  to  men  ;  nor  know,  they  strive  to  part 
What  nature  joins,  and  thus  confute  themselves. 
With  piety  begins  all  good  on  earth ; 
Tis  the  first  born  of  rationality. 
Conscience,  her  first  law  broken,  wounded  hes  ; 
Enfeebled,  lifeless,  impotent  to  good  ; 
A  feign'd  affection  bounds  her  utmost  power. 
Some  we  can't  love,  but  for  th'  Almighty's  sake  ; 
A  foe  to  God  was  ne'er  true  friend  to  man ; 
Some  sinister  intent  taints  all  he  does, 
And,  in  his  kindest  actions,  he  's  unkind. 

On  piety,  humanity  is  built ; 
And,  on  humanity,  much  happiness  ; 
And  yet  still  more  on  piety  itself. 
A  soul  in  commerce  with  her  Go  1,  is  heav*n ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  323 


Feels  not  the  tumults  and  the  shocks  of  life ; 

The  whirls  of  passions,  and  the  strokes  of  heart. 

A  Deity  believ'd,  is  joy  begun ; 

A  Deity  ador'd,  is  joy  ad  vane 'd ; 

A  Deity  belov'd,  is  joy  matur'd. 

Each  branch  of  piety  delight  inspires  ; 

Faith  builds  a  bridge  from  this  world  to  the  next, 

O'er  death's  dark  gulf,  and  all  its  horror  hides ; 

Praise,  the  sweet  exhalation  of  our  joy, 

Tliat  joy  exalts,  and  makes  it  sweeter  still ; 

Pray'r  ardent  opens  heav'n,  lets  down  a  stream 

Of  glory  on  the  consecrated  hour 

Of  man,  in  audience  with  the  Deity, 

Who  worships  the  great  God,  that  instant  joins 

The  first  in  heav'n,  and  sets  his  foot  on  hell. 

Lorenzo  !  when  wast  thou  at  church  before  ? 
Thou  think'st  the  service  long :  but  is  it  just  ? 
Tho'  just,  unwelcome  ;  thou  hadst  rather  tread 
Unhallow'd  ground  ;  the  muse,  to  win  thine  ear, 
Must  take  an  air  less  solemn :  she  complies. 
Good  conscience !  at  the  sound  the  world  retires  ? 
Verse  disaffects  it,  and  Lorenzo  smiles  ; 


324  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Yet  has  she  her  seraglio  full  of  charms ; 

And  such  as  age  shall  heighten,  not  impair. 

Art  thou  dejected  ?     Is  thy  mind  o'ercast  ? 

Amid  her  fair  ones,  thou  the  fairest  choose, 

To  chase  thy  gloom. — "  Go,  fix  some  weighty  truth  ; 

Chain  down  some  passion ;  do  some  gen'rous  good  ; 

Teach  ignorance  to  see,  or  grief  to  smile ; 

Correct  thy  friend  ;  befriend  thy  greatest  foe  ; 

Or,  with  warm  heart,  and  confidence  divine. 

Spring  up,  and  lay  strong   hold   on  Him  who  made 

thee."— 
Thy  gloom  is  scatter'd,  sprightly  spirits  flow  ; 
Tho'  wither'd  is  thy  vine,  and  harp  unstrung. 
Dost  call  the  bowl,  the  viol,  and  the  dance, 
Loud  mirth,  mad  laughter  ?  wretched  comforters  ! 
Physicians !  more  than  half  of  thy  disease. 
Laughter,  tho'  never  censur'd  yet  as  sin 
(Pardon  a  thought  that  only  seems  severe), 
Is  half  immoral :  is  it  much  indulged  ? 
By  venting  spleen,  or  dissipating  thought. 
It  shows  a  scorner,  or  it  makes  a  fool ; 
And  sins,  as  hurting  others,  or  ourselves. 


NIGHT     VIII.  325 


'Tis  pride  or  emptiness,  applies  the  straw, 

That  tickles  little  minds  to  mirth  effuse  ; 

Of  grief  as  impotent,  portentous  sign ! 

The  house  of  laughter  makes  a  house  of  woe. 

A  man  triumphant  is  a  monstrous  sight ; 

A  man  dejected  is  a  sight  as  mean. 

What  cause  for  triumph,  where  such  ills  abound  ? 

What  for  dejection,  where  presides  a  power, 

Who  call'd  us  into  being  to  be  blest  ? 

So  grieve,  as  conscious  grief  may  rise  to  joy ; 

So  joy,  as  conscious  joy  to  grief  may  fall. 

Most  true,  a  wise  man  never  will  be  sad  ; 

But  neither  will  sonorous,  bubbling  mirth, 

A  shallow  stream  of  happiness  betray  : 

Too  happy  to  be  sportive,  he  's  serene. 

Yet,  wouldst  thou  laugh  (but  at  thy  own  expense), 
This  counsel  strange  should  I  presume  to  give — 
"  Retire  and  read  thy  Bible,  to  be  gay." 
There  truths  abound  of  sov'reign  aid  to  peace  ; 
Ah !  do  not  prize  them  less,  because  inspired. 
As  thou,  and  thine,  art  apt  and  proud  to  do. 
If  not  inspir'd,  that  pregnant  page  had  stood, 


326  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Time's  treasure  !  and  the  wonder  of  the  wise  ! 
Thou  think'st,  perhaps,  thy  soul  alone  at  stake ; 
Alas  ! — should  men  mistake  thee  for  a  fool ; — 
What  man  of  taste  for  genius,  wisdom,  truth, 
Tho'  tender  of  thy  fame,  could  interpose  ? 
Believe  me,  sense  here  acts  a  double  part, 
And  the  true  critic  is  a  Christian  too. 

But  these,  thou  think'st,  are  gloomy  paths  to  joy. 
True  joy  in  sunshine  ne'er  was  found  at  first ; 
They,  first,  themselves  offend,  who  greatly  please  ; 
And  travel  only  gives  us  sound  repose. 
Heav'n  sells  all  pleasure  ;  effort  is  the  price  ; 
The  joys  of  conquest  are  the  joys  of  man  ; 
And  glory  the  victorious  laurel  spreads 
O'er  pleasure's  pure,  perpetual,  placid  stream. 

There  is  a  time  when  toil  must  be  preferr'd, 
Or  joy,  by  mistimed  fondness,  is  undone. 
A  man  of  pleasure  is  a  man  of  pains. 
Thou  wilt  not  take  the  trouble  to  be  blest. 
False  joys,  indeed,  are  born  from  want  of  thought  ; 
From  thought's  full  bent,  and  energy,  the  true  ; 
And  that  demands  a  mind  in  equal  poise. 


NIGHT     VIII.  327 


Remote  from  gloomy  grief  and  glaring    joy. 

Much  joy  not  only  speaks  small  happiness, 

But  happiness,  that  shortly  must  expire. 

Can  joy,  unbottom'd  in  reflection,  stand  ? 

And,  in  a  tempest,  can  reflection  live  ? 

Can  joy,  like  thine,  secure  itself  an  hour  ? 

Can  joy,  like  thine,  meet  accident  unshocked  ? 

Or  ope  the  door  to  honest  poverty  ? 

Or  talk  with  threat'ning  death,  and  not  turn  pale  ? 

In  such  a  world,  and  such  a  nature,  these 

Are  needful  fundamentals  of  delight : 

These  fundamentals,  give  delight  indeed  ; 

Delight,  pure,  delicate,  and  durable ; 

Delisfht,  unshaken,  masculine,  divine  : 

A  constant,  and  a  sound,  but  serious  joy. 

Is  joy  the  daughter  of  severity? 
It  is : — Yet  far  my  doctrine  from  severe. 
*'  Rejoice  forever  :"    It  becomes  a  man  ; 
Exalts,  and  sets  him  nearer  to  the  gods. 
"Rejoice  forever,"  nature  cries,  "Rejoice;" 
And  drinks  to  man,  in  her  nectareous  cup, 
Mix'd  up  of  dehcates  for  ev'ry  sense ; 


328  THE     COMPLAINT. 

To  the  great  Founder  of  the  bounteous  feast. 

Drinks  glory,  gratitude,  eternal  praise ; 

And  he  that  will  not  pledge  her,  is  a  churl. 

Ill  firmly  to  support,  good  fully  taste, 

Is  the  whole  science  of  felicity : 

Yet  sparing  pledge :  her  bowl  is  not  the  best 

Mankind  can  boast. — "  A  rational  repast ; 

Exertion,  vigilance,  a  mind  in  arms, 

A  military  discipline  of  thought, 

To  foil  temptation  in  the  doubtful  field ; 

And  ever- waking  ardor  for  the  right." 

'Tis  these,  first  give,  then  guard,  a  cheerful  heart. 

Nought  that  is  right,  think  little ;  well  aware. 

What  reason  bids,  God  bids  ;  by  his  command 

How  aggrandiz'd  the  smallest  thing  we  do ! 

Thus,  nothing  is  insipid  to  the  wise ; 

To  thee,  insipid  all,  but  what  is  mad ; 

Joys  season'd  high,  and  tasting  strong  of  guilt. 

"  Mad !  (thou  reply'st,  with  indignation  fir'd) 

Of  ancient  sages  proud  to  tread  the  steps, 

I  follow  nature." — Follow  nature  still. 

But  look  it  be  thine  own :    Is  conscience,  then. 


NIGHT     VIII.  329 


No  part  of  nature  ?     Is  she  not  supreme  ? 
Thou  regicide  !     0  raise  her  from  the  dead  ! 
Then,  follow  nature  ;  and  resemble  God. 

When,  spite  of  conscience,  pleasure  is  pursued 
Man's  nature  is  unnaturally  pleas'd : 
And  what 's  unnatural,  is  painful  too 
At  intervals,  and  must  disgust  ev'n  thee  ! 
The  fact  thou  know'st ;  but  not,  perhaps,  the  cause. 
Virtue's  foundations  with  the  world's  were  laid ; 
Heav'n  mix'd  her  with  our  make,  and  twisted  close 
Her  sacred  int'rests  with  the  strings  of  life. 
Who  breaks  her  awful  mandate,  shocks  himself, 
His  better  self:    And  is  it  greater  pain. 
Our  soul  should  murmur,  or  our  dust  repine? 
And  one,  in  their  eternal  war,  must  bleed. 

If  one  must  suffer,  which  should  least  be  spar'd  ? 
The  pains  of  mind  surpass  the  pains  of  sense : 
Ask,  then,  the  gout,  what  torment  is  in  guilt. 
The  joys  of  sense  to  mental  joys  are  mean : 
Sense  on  the  present  only  feeds ;  the  soul 
On  past,  and  future,  forages  for  joy. 
'Tis  hers,  by  retrospect,  thro'  time  to  range ; 


330  THE     COMPLAINT. 

And  forward  time's  great  sequel  to  survey. 
Could  human  courts  take  vena^eance  on  the  mind. 
Axes  might  rust,  and  racks,  and  gibbets,  fall : 
Guard,  then,  thy  mind,  and  leave  the  rest  to  fate. 

Lorenzo  !  wilt  thou  never  be  a  man  ? 
The  man  is  dead,  who  for  the  body  lives, 
Lur'd,  by  the  beating  of  his  pulse,  to  list 
With  ev'ry  lust,  that  wars  against  his  peace ; 
And  sets  him  quite  at  variance  with  himself. 
Thyself,  first,  know  ;  then  love :    A  self  there  is 
Of  virtue  fond,  that  kindles  at  her  charms. 
A  self  there  is,  as  fond  of  ev'ry  vice, 
While  ev'ry  virtue  wounds  it  to  the  heart ; 
Humility  degrades  it,  justice  robs. 
Blest  bounty  beggars  it,  fair  truth  betrays, 
And  godlike  magnanimity  destroys. 
This  self,  when  rival  to  the  former,  scorn ; 
When  not  in  competition,  kindly  treat, 
Defend  it,  feed  it : — But  when  virtue  bids. 
Toss  it,  or  to  the  fowls,  or  to  the  flames. 
And  why  ?     'Tis  love  of  pleasure  bids  thee  bleed ; 
Comply,  or  own  self-love  extinct,  or  blind. 


NIGHT     VIII.  331 


For  what  is  vice  ?     Self-love  in  a  mistake  ; 
A  poor  blind  merchant  buying  joys  too  dear. 
And  virtue,  what  ?     'Tis  self-love  in  her  wits, 
Quite  skilful  in  the  market  of  delight. 
Self-love's  good  sense  is  love  of  that  dread  Power, 
From  whom  herself,  and  all  she  can  enjoy. 
Other  self-love  is  but  disguis'd  self-hate ; 
More  mortal  than  the  malice  of  our  foes  ; 
A  self-hate,  now,  scarce  felt ;  then  felt  full  sore, 
When  being,  curs'd  ;  extinction,  loud  implor'd  ; 
And  ev'rything  preferr'd  to  what  we  are. 

Yet  this  self-love  Lorenzo  makes  his  choice 
And,  in  this  choice  triumphant,  boasts  of  joy. 
How  is  his  want  of  happiness  betray 'd. 
By  disaffection  to  the  present  hour ! 
Imagination  wanders  far  afield  : 
The  future  pleases  :    Why  ?    The  present  pains. — 
"  But  that  's  a  secret." — Yes,  which  all  men  know; 
And  know  from  thee,  discover'd  unawares. 
Thy  ceaseless  agitation,  restless  roll 
From  cheat  to  cheat,  impatient  of  a  pause ; 
What  is  it  ? — 'Tis  the  cradle  of  the  soul. 


332  THE     COMPLAINT. 

From  instinct  sent,  to  rock  her  in  disease. 
Which  her  physician,  reason,  will  not  cure. 
A  poor  expedient !  yet  thy  best ;  and  while 
It  mitigates  thy  pain,  it  owns  it  too. 

Such  are  Lorenzo's  wretched  remedies ! 
The  weak  have  remedies ;  the  wise  have  joys. 
Superior  wisdom  is  superior  bliss. 
And  what  sure  mark  distinguishes  the  wise  ? 
Consistent  wisdom  ever  wills  the  same ; 
Thy  fickle  wish  is  ever  on  the  wing. 
Sick  of  herself,  is  folly's  character  ; 
As  wisdom's  is  a  modest  self-applause. 
A  change  of  evils  is  thy  good  supreme ; 
Nor,  but  in  motion,  canst  thou  find  thy  rest. 
Man's  greatest  strength  is  shown  in  standing  still. 
The  first  sure  symptom  of  a  mind  in  health. 
Is  rest  of  heart,  and  pleasure  felt  at  home. 
False  pleasure  from  abroad  her  joys  imports  ; 
Rich  from  within,  and  self-sustain'd,  the  true. 
The  true  is  fix'd,  and  solid  as  a  rock; 
Slipp'ry  the  false,  and  tossing,  as  the  wave. 
This,  a  wild  wanderer  on  earth,  like  Cain ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  333 


That,  like  the  fabled,  self-enamor'd  boy. 
Home-contemplation  her  supreme  delight ; 
She  dreads  an  interruption  from  without, 
Smit  with  her  o^yn  condition ;  and  the  more 
Intense  she  gazes,  still  it  charms  the  more. 

No  man  is  happy,  till  he  thinks,  on  earth 
There  breathes  not  a  more  happy  than  himself : 
Then  envy  dies,  and  love  o'erflows  on  all ; 
And  love  o'erflowing  makes  an  angel  here. 
Such  angels  all,  entitled  to  repose 
On  Him  who  governs  fate :    Tho'  tempest  frowns, 
Tho'  nature  shakes,  how  soft  to  lean  on  Heaven ! 
To  lean  on  Him,  on  whom  archangels  lean  ! 
"With  inward  eyes,  and  silent  as  the  grave. 
They  stand  collecting  ev'ry  beam  of  thought. 
Till  their  hearts  kindle  with  divine  delight ; 
For  all  their  thoua^hts,  like  angels,  seen  of  old 
In  Israel's  dream,  come  from,  and  go  to  heaven : 
Hence,  are  they  studious  of  sequester'd  scenes ; 
While  noise,  and  dissipation,  comfort  thee. 

Were  all  men  happy,  revellings  would  cease, 
That  opiate  for  inquietude  within. 


334  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Lorenzo !  never  man  was  truly  blest, 

But  it  compos'd,  and  gave  him  such  a  cast. 

As  folly  might  mistake  for  want  of  joy. 

A  cast,  unlike  the  triumph  of  the  proud ; 

A  modest  aspect,  and  a  smile  at  heart. 

0  for  a  joy  from  thy  Philander's  spring  ! 

A  spring  perennial,  rising  in  the  breast, 

And  permanent,  as  pure  !  no  turbid  stream 

Of  rapt'rous  exaltation  swelling  high  ; 

Which,  like  land-floods,  impetuous  pour  awhile, 

Then  sink  at  once,  and  leave  us  in  the  mire. 

What  does  the  man,  Avho  transient  joy  prefers  ? 

What,  but  prefer  the  bubbles  to  the  stream  ? 

Vain  are  all  sudden  sallies  of  delight ; 
Convulsions  of  a  weak  distemper'd  joy. 
Joy  's  a  fix'd  state ;  a  tenor,  not  a  start. 
Bliss  there  is  none,  but  unprecarious  bliss : 
That  is  the  gem  :  sell  all,  and  purchase  that. 
Why  go  a  begging  to  contingencies, 
Not  gain'd  with  ease,  nor  safely  lov'd,  if  gain'd  ? 
At  good  fortuitous,  draw  back,  and  pause  ; 
Suspect  it ;  what  thou  canst  ensure,  enjoy ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  335 


And  nought  but  what  thou  giv'st  thyself,  is  sure. 
Reason  perpetuates  joy  that  reason  gives. 
And  makes  it  as  immortal  as  herself: 
To  mortals,  nought  immortal,  but  their  worth. 

Worth,  conscious  worth  !  should  absolutely  reign  ; 
And  other  joys  ask  leave  for  their  approach ; 
Nor,  unexamin'd,  ever  leave  obtain. 
Thou  art  all  anarchy ;  a  mob  of  joys 
Wage  war,  and  perish  in  intestine  broils ; 
Not  the  least  promise  of  internal  peace  ! 
No  bosom-comfort !  or  unborrow'd  bliss  ! 
Thy  thoughts  are  vagabonds  ;  all  outward-bound, 
Mid  sands,  and  rocks,  and  storms,  to  cruise  for  pleasure  ; 
If  gain'd,  dear-bought ;  and  better  miss'd  than  gain'd. 
Much  pain  must  expiate,  what  much  pain  procured. 
Fancy,  and  sense,  from  an  infected  shore, 
Thy  cargo  bring ;  and  pestilence  the  prize, 
Then,  such  thy  thirst  (insatiable  thirst ! 
By  fond  indulgence  but  inflam'd  the  more !) 
Fancy  still  cruises,  when  poor  sense  is  tir'd. 

Imagination  is  the  Paphian  shop, 
Where  feeble  happiness,  like  Vulcan,  lame, 


S'S(S  THE     COMPLAINT 


Bids  foul  ideas,  in  their  dark  recess, 

And  hot  as  hell  (which  kindled  the  black  tires). 

With  wanton  art,  those  fatal  arrows  form. 

Which  murder  all  thy  time,  health,  wealth,  and  fame. 

Wouldst  thou  receive  them,  other  thoughts  there  are. 

On  angel-wing,  descending  from  above. 

Which  these,  with  art  divine,  would  counterwork. 

And  form  celestial  armor  for  thy  peace. 

In  this  is  seen  imagination's  guilt ; 
But  who  can  count  her  follies  ?     She  betrays  thee, 
To  think  in  grandeur  there  is  something  great. 
For  works  of  curious  art,  and  ancient  fame, 
Thy  genius  hungers,  elegantly  pain'd  ; 
And  foreign  climes  must  cater  for  thy  taste. 
Hence,  what  disaster ! — Tho'  the  price  was  paid, 
That  persecuting  priest,  the  Turk  of  Rome, 
Whose  foot  (ye  gods !)  tho'  cloven,  must  be  kiss'd, 
Detain'd  thy  dinner  on  the  Latian  shore  ; 
(Such  is  the  fate  of  honest  Protestants  !) 
And  poor  magnificence  is  starv'd  to  death. 
Hence  just  resentment,  indignation,  ire  ! — 
Be  pacified ;  if  outward  things  are  great, 


NIGHT     VIII.  887 


'T  is  magnanimity  great  things  to  scorn  ; 
Pompous  expenses,  and  parades  august, 
And  courts ;  that  insalubrious  soil  to  peace. 
True  happiness  ne'er  enter'd  at  an  eye ; 
True  happiness  resides  in  things  unseen. 
No  smiles  of  fortune  ever  bless'd  the  bad, 
Nor  can  her  frowns  rob  innocence  of  joys ; 
That  jewel  wanting,  triple  crowns  are  poor : 
So  tell  his  holiness,  and  be  reveng'd. 

Pleasure,  we  both  agree,  is  man's  chief  good  ; 
Our  only  contest,  what  deserves  the  name. 
Give  pleasure's  name  to  nought,  but  what  has  pass'd 
Th'  authentic  seal  of  reason  (which,  like  Yorke, 
Demurs  on  what  it  passes),  and  defies 
The  tooth  of  time ;  when  past,  a  pleasure  still ; 
Dearer  on  trial,  lovelier  for  its  age. 
And  doubly  to  be  priz'd,  as  it  promotes 
Our  future,  while  it  forms  our  present,  joy. 
Some  joys  the  future  overcast ;  and  some 
Throw  all  their  beams  that  way,  and  gild  the  tomb. 
Some  Joys  endear  eternity  ;  some  give 
Abhorr'd  annihilation  dreadful  charms. 


15 


338  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Are  rival  joys  contending  for  thy  choice  ? 
Consult  thy  whole  existence,  and  be  safe  ; 
That  oracle  will  put  all  doubt  to  flight. 
Short  is  the  lesson,  tho'  my  lecture  long, 
Be  good — and  let  heav'n  answer  for  the  rest. 

Yet,  with  a  sigh  o'er  all  mankind,  I  grant, 
In  this  our  day  of  proof,  our  land  of  hope, 
The  good  man  has  his  clouds  that  intervene  ; 
Clouds,  that  obscure  his  sublunary  day, 
But  never  conquer :  ev'n  the  best  must  own. 
Patience,  and  resignation,  are  the  pillars 
Of  human  peace  on  earth.     The  pillars,  these  ; 
But  those  of  Seth  not  more  remote  from  thee. 
Till  this  heroic  lesson  thou  hast  learn'd  ; 
To  frown  at  pleasure,  and  to  smile  in  pain. 
Fir'd  at  the  prospect  of  unclouded  bliss, 
Heav'n  in  i-eversion,  like  the  sun,  as  yet 
Beneath  th'  horizon,  cheers  us  in  this  world  ; 
It  sheds,  on  souls  susceptible  of  light. 
The  glorious  dawn  of  our  eternal  day. 

"  This  (says  Lorenzo)  is  a  fair  harangue  : 
But  can  harangues  blow  back  strong  nature's  stream 


NIGHT     VIII.  339 

Or  stem  the  tide  Heav'n  pushes  thro'  our  veins, 
Which  sweeps  away  man's  impotent  resolves,- 
And  lays  his  labor  level  with  the  world  ?" 

Themselves  men  make  their  comment  on  mankind  • 
And  think  nought  is,  but  what  they  find  at  home : 
Thus,  weakness  to  chimera  turns  the  truth. 
Nothing  romantic  has  the  muse  prescrib'd. 
Above,*  Lorenzo  saw  the  man  of  earth, 
The  mortal  man ;  and  wretched  was  the  sight. 
To  balance  that,  to  comfort,  and  exalt, 
'Now  see  the  man  immortal :  him,  I  mean. 
Who  lives  as  such ;  whose  heart,  full-bent  on  Heaven, 
Leans  all  that  way;  his  bias  to  the  stars. 
The  w^orld's  dark  shades,  in  contrast  set,  shall  raise 
His  lustre  more ;  tho'  bright,  without  a  foil : 
Observe  his  awful  portrait,  and  admire ; 
ISTor  stop  at  wonder ;  imitate,  and  live. 

Some  angel  guide  my  pencil,  while  I  draw, 
What  nothing  less  than  angel  can  exceed, 
A  man  on  earth  devoted  to  the  skies, 
Like  ships  in  seas,  while  in,  above,  the  world. 
*  In  a  former  Night. 


340  THE     COMPLAINT. 

With  aspect  mild,  and  elevated  eye, 
Behold  him  seated  on  a  mount  serene, 
Above  the  fogs  of  sense,  and  passion's  storm  ; 
All  the  black  cares,  and  tumults,  of  this  life, 
Like  harmless  thunders,  breaking  at  his  feet, 
Excite  his  pity,  not  impair  his  peace. 
Earth's  genuine  sons,  the  sceptred  and  the  slave, 
A  mingled  mob  !  a  wand'ring  herd  !  he  sees 
Bewilder'd  in  the  vale  *  in  all  unlike  ! 
His  full  reverse  in  all !     What  higher  praise  ? 
What  stronger  demonstration  of  the  right  ? 

The  present  all  their  care ;  the  future,  his. 
When  public  welfare  calls,  or  private  want, 
They  give  to  fame  ;  his  bounty  he  conceals. 
Their  virtues  varnish  nature ;  his,  exalt. 
Mankind's  esteem  they  court ;  and  he,  his  own. 
Theirs,  the  wild  chase  of  false  felicities  ; 
His,  the  compos'd  possession  of  the  true. 
Alike  throughout  is  his  consistent  peace. 
All  of  one  color,  and  an  even  thread ; 
While  party- color'd  shreds  of  happiness, 
With  hideous  gaps  between,  patch  up  for  them 


NIGHT     VIII.  841 


A  madman's  robe  ;  each  puff  of  fortune  blows 
The  tatters  by,  and  shows  their  nakedness. 

He  sees  with  other  eyes  than  theirs :    Where  they 
Behold  a  sun,  he  spies  a  Deity ; 
What  makes  them  only  smile,  makes  him  adore. 
Where  they  see  mountains,  he  but  atoms  sees ; 
An  empire,  in  his  balance,  weighs  a  grain. 
They  things  terrestrial  worship,  as  divine ; 
His  hopes  immortal  blow  them  by,  as  dust 
That  dims  his  sight,  and  shortens  his  survey, 
Which  longs,  in  infinite,  to  lose  all  bound. 
Titles  and  honors  (if  they  prove  his  fnte) 
He  lays  aside  to  find  his  di^•nity  ; 
No  dignity  they  find  in  aught  besides. 
They  triumph  in  externals  (which  conceal 
Man's  real  glory),  proud  of  an  eclipse. 
Himself  too  much  he  prizes  to  be  proud. 
And  nothing  thinks  so  great  in  man,  as  man. 
Too  dear  he  holds  his  int'rest,  to  neglect 
Another's  welfare,  or  his  right  invade  ; 
Their  int'rest,  like  a  lion,  lives  on  prey. 
They  kindle  at  the  shadow  of  a  wrong ; 


342  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Wrong  he  sustains  with  temper,  looks  on  heaven. 
Nor  stoops  to  think  his  injurer  his  foe  ; 
Nought,  but  what  wounds  his  virtue,  wounds  his  peace. 
A  cover'd  heart  their  character  defends ; 
A  cover'd  heart  denies  him  half  his  praise. 
With  nakedness  his  innocence  agrees ; 
While  their  broad  foliage  testifies  their  fall. 
Their  no-joys  end,  where  his  full  feast  begins ; 
His  joys  create,  theirs  murder,  future  bliss. 
To  triumph  in  existence,  his  alone ; 
And  his  alone,  triumphantly  to  think 
His  true  existence  is  not  yet  begun. 
His  glorious  course  was,  yesterday,  complete ; 
Death,  then,  was  welcome ;  yet  hfe  still  is  sweet. 
But  nothing  charms  Lorenzo,  like  the  firm, 

Undaunted  breast And  whose  is  that  liigh  praise? 

They  yield  to  pleasure,  tho'  they  danger  brave. 
And  show  no  fortitude,  but  in  the  field  ; 
If  there  they  show  it,  'tis  for  glory  shown ; 
Nor  will  that  cordial  always  man  their  hearts. 
A  cordial  his  sustains,  that  cannot  fail ; 
By  pleasure  unsubdu'd,  unbroke  by  pain, 


NIGHT     VIII.  343 


He  shares  in  that  Omnipotence  he  trusts. 

All-bearing,  All-attempting,  till  he  falls ; 

And  when  he  falls,  writes  vici  on  his  shield. 

From  magnanimity,  all  fear  above  ; 

From  nobler  recompense,  above  applause ; 

Which  owes  to  man's  short  out-look  all  its  charms. 

Backward  to  credit  what  he  never  felt, 
Lorenzo  cries, — "Where  shines  this  miracle  ? 
From  what  root  rises  this  immortal  man  ?" 
A  root  that  grows  not  in  Lorenzo's  ground  ; 
The  root  dissect,  nor  wonder  at  the  flower. 

He  follows  nature  (not  like  thee*) ;  and  shows  us 
An  uninverted  system  of  a  man. 
His  appetite  wears  reason's  golden  chain. 
And  finds,  in  due  restraint,  its  luxury. 
His  passion,  like  an  eagle  well  reclaim'd. 
Is  taught  to  fly  at  nought,  but  infinite. 
Patient  his  hope,  unanxious  is  his  care, 
His  caution  fearless,  and  his  grief  (if  grief 
The  gods  ordain)  a  stranger  to  despair. 
And  why  ? — Because  afi"ection,  more  than  meet, 
*  See  Page  328,  Line  21. 


344  THE     COMPLAINT. 

His  wisdom  leaves  not  disengag'd  from  heaven. 

Those  secondary  goods  that  smile  on  earth, 

He,  loving,  in  proportion,  loves  in  peace. 

They  most  the  world  enjoy,  who  least  admire. 

His  understanding  'scapes  the  common  cloud 

Of  fumes,  arising  from  a  boiling  breast. 

His  head  is  clear,  because  his  heart  is  cool. 

By  worldly  competitions  uninflam'd. 

The  mod'rate  movements  of  his  soul  admit 

Distinct  ideas,  and  matur'd  debate. 

An  eye  impartial,  and  an  even  scale ; 

Whence  judgment  sound,  and  unrepenting  choice. 

Thus,  in  a  double  sense,  the  good  are  wise ; 

On  its  own  dunghill,  wiser  than  the  world. 

What,  then,  the  world  ?     It  must  be  doubly  weak  ; 

Strange  truth !  as  soon  would  they  believe  the  creed. 

Yet  thus  it  is  ;  nor  otherwise  can  be ; 
So  far  from  aught  romantic,  what  I  sing. 
Bliss  has  no  beinff,  virtue  has  no  strenq-th. 
But  from  the  prospect  of  immortal  life. 
Who  think  earth  all,  or  (what  weighs  just  the  same) 
Who  care  no  farther,  must  prize  what  it  yields ; 


NIGHT     VIII.  345 


Fond  of  its  fancies,  proud  of  its  parades. 

Who  thinks  earth  nothing,  can't  its  charms  admire ; 

He  can't  a  foe,  tho'  most  mahgnant,  hate, 

Because  that  hate  would  prove  his  greater  foe. 

'Tis  hard  for  them  (yet  who  so  loudly  boast 

Good  will  to  men  ?)  to  love  their  dearest  friend ; 

For  may  he  not  invade  their  good  supreme. 

Where  the  least  jealousy  turns  love  to  gall  ? 

All  shines  to  them,  that  for  a  season  shines. 

Each  act,  each  thought,  he  questions,  "  What  its  weight, 

Its  color  what,  a  thousand  ages  hence  ?" — 

And  what  it  there  appears,  he  deems  it  now. 

Hence,  pure  are  the  recesses  of  his  soul. 

The  god-like  man  has  nothing  to  conceal. 

His  virtue,  constitutionally  deep, 

Has  habit's  firmness,  and  affection's  flame ; 

Angels,  allied,  descend  to  feed  the  fire ; 

And  death,  which  others  slays,  makes  him  a  god. 

And  now,  Lorenzo  !  bigot  of  this  world  ' 
Wont  to  disdain  poor  bigots  caught  by  heaven ! 
Stand  by  thy  scorn,  and  be  reduc'd  to  nought : 
For  what  art  thou  ? — Thou  boaster !  While  thy  glare, 


15* 


346  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Thy  gaudy  grandeur,  and  mere  worldly  worth, 
Like  a  broad  mist,  at  distance  strikes  us  most ; 
And,  like  a  mist,  is  nothing  when  at  hand ; 
His  merit,  like  a  mountain,  on  approach, 
Swells  more,  and  rises  nearer  to  the  skies. 
By  promise,  now,  and,  by  possession,  soon, 
(Too  soon,  too  much,  it  cannot  be)  his  own. 

From  this  thy  just  annihilation  rise, 
Lorenzo  !  rise  to  something,  by  reply. 
The  world,  thy  client,  listens,  and  expects ; 
And  longs  to  crown  thee  with  immortal  praise. 
Canst  thou  be  silent  ?     No  ;  for  wit  is  thine ; 
And  wit  talks  most,  when  least  she  has  to  say, 
And  reason  interrupts  not  her  career. 
She'll  say — That  mists  above  the  mountains  rise ; 
And,  with  a  thousand  pleasantries,  amuse  • 
She'll  sparkle,  puzzle,  flutter,  raise  a  dust. 
And  fly  conviction,  in  the  dust  she  rais'd. 

Wit,  hoAV  delicious  to  man's  dainty  taste ! — 
'Tis  precious,  as  the  vehicle  of  sense  ; 
But,  as  its  substitute,  a  dire  disease. 
Pernicious  talent !  flatter'd  by  the  world, 


NIGHT     VITI.  347 


By  the  blind  world,  which  thinks  the  talent  rare. 
Wisdom  is  rare,  Lorenzo  !     Wit  abounds  ; 
Passion  can  give  it;  sometimes  wine  inspires 
The  lucky  flash  ;  and  madness  rarely  fails. 
Whatever  cause  the  spirit  strongly  stirs. 
Confers  the  bays,  and  rivals  thy  renown. 
For  thy  renown,  'twere  well,  was  this  the  worst ; 
Chance  often  hits  it ;  and,  to  pique  thee  more, 
See  dulness,  blund'ring  on  vivacities, 
Shakes  her  sage  head  at  the  calamity. 
Which  has  expos'd,  and  let  her  down  to  thee. 
But  wisdom,  awful  wisdom  !  which  inspects, 
Discerns,  compares,  weighs,  separates,  infers. 
Seizes  the  right,  and  holds  it  to  the  last ; 
How  rare  !  in  senates,  synods,  sought  in  vain ; 
Or  if  there  found,  'tis  sacred  to  the  few  ; 
While  a  lewd  prostitute  to  multitudes. 
Frequent,  as  fatal,  wit :  in  civil  hfe, 
Wit  makes  an  enterprizer ;  sense,  a  man. 
Wit  hates  authority  ;  commotion  loves, 
And  thinks  herself  the  lio;htnino^  of  the  storm. 
In  states  'tis  dano-erous  ;  in  reliction,  death  : 


348  THE      COMPLAINT. 

Shall  wit  turn  Christian,  when  the  dull  believe  ? 

Sense  is  our  helmet,  wit  is  but  the  plume  ; 

The  plume  exposes,  'tis  our  helmet  saves. 

Sense  is  the  diamond,  weighty,  solid,  sound  ; 

When  cut  by  wit,  it  casts  a  brighter  beam ; 

Yet,  wit  apart,  it  is  a  diamond  still. 

Wit,  widow'd  of  good  sense,  is  worse  than  nought ; 

It  hoists  more  sail  to  run  against  a  rock. 

Thus,  a  half-Chesterfield  is  quite  a  fool ; 

Whom  dull  fools  scorn,  and  bless  their  want  of  wit. 

How  ruinous  the  rock  I  warn  thee  shun. 
Where  sirens  sit  to  sing  thee  to  thy  fate ! 
A  joy,  in  which  our  reason  bears  no  part. 
Is  but  a  sorrow  tickhng,  ere  it  stings. 
Let  not  the  cooings  of  the  world  allure  thee  ; 
Which  of  her  lovers  ever  found  her  true  ? 
Happy  !  of  this  bad  world  who  little  know  ; — 
And  yet,  we  much  must  know  her,  to  be  safe. 
To  know  the  world,  not  love  her,  is  thy  point ; 
She  gives  but  little,  nor  that  little  long. 
There  is,  I  grant,  a  triumph  of  the  pulse ; 
A  dance  of  spirits,  a  mere  froth  of  joy, 


NIGHT     VIII.  349 


Our  thouo^htless  ao;itation's  idle  child, 

That  mantles  high,  that  sparkles,  and  expires, 

Leaving  the  soul  more  vapid  than  before. 

An  animal  ovation !  such  as  holds 

No  commerce  with  our  reason,  but  subsists 

On  juices,  thro'  the  well-ton'd  tubes,  well  strahi*d 

A  nice  machine  !  scarce  ever  tun'd  aright ; 

And  when  it  jars — thy  sirens  sing  no  more. 

Thy  dance  is  done ;  the  demi-god  is  thrown 

(Short  apotheosis !)  beneath  the  man. 

In  coward  gloom  immers'd,  or  fell  despair. 

Art  thou  yet  dull  enough  despair  to  dread, 
And  startle  at  destruction  ?     If  thou  art. 
Accept  a  buckler,  take  it  to  the  field ; 
(A  field  of  battle  is  this  mortal  life  !) 
When  danger  threatens,  lay  it  on  thy  heart  ; 
A  single  sentence  proof  against  the  world. 
"  Soul,  body,  fortune  !  ev'ry  good  pertains 
To  one  of  these  ;  but  prize  not  all  alike ; 
The  goods  of  fortune  to  thy  body's  health. 
Body  to  soul,  and  soul  submit  to  God.*' 


850  THE     COMPLAINT. 

Wouldst  thou  build  lasting  happiness  ?     Do  this  ; 
Th'  inverted  pyramid  can  never  stand. 

Is  this  truth  doubtful  ?     It  outshines  the  sun  ; 
Nay,  the  sun  shines  not,  but  to  show  us  this. 
The  single  lesson  of  mankind  on  earth. 
And  yet — yet,  what  ?     No  news  !  mankind  is  mad ; 
Such  mighty  numbers  list  against  the  right, 
(And  what  can't  numbers,  when  bewitch'd,  achieve  ?) 
They  talk  theniselves  to  something  like  belief. 
That  all  earth's  joys  are  theirs  :  as  Athens'  fool 
Grinn'd  from  the  port,  on  ev'ry  sail  his  own. 

They  grin ;  but  wherefore  ?      And   how  long   the 
laugh  ? 
Half  ignorance,  their  mirth  ;  and  half,  a  lie  ; 
To  cheat  the  world,  and  cheat  themselves  they  smile. 
Hard  either  task !     The  most  abandon'd  own, 
That  others,  if  abandon'd,  are  undone  : 
Then,  for  themselves,  the  moment  reason  wakes, 
(And  providence  denies  it  long  repose) 
0  how  laborious  is  their  gayety  ! 
They  scarce  can  swallow  their  ebullient  spleen, 
Scarce  muster  patience  to  support  the  farce. 


NIGHT     VIII.  351 


And  pump  sad  laughter,  till  the  curtain  falls. 
Scarce,  did  I  say  ?     Some  cannot  sit  it  out ; 
Oft  their  own  daring  hands  the  curtain  draw. 
And  show  us  what  their  joy  by  their  despair. 

The  clotted  hair  !  gor'd  breast !  blaspheming  eye ! 
Its  impious  fury  still  alive  in  death  ! — 
Shut,  shut  the  shocking  scene. — But  heav'n  denies 
A  cover  to  such  guilt ;  and  so  should  man. 
Look  round,  Lorenzo  !  see  the  reeking  blade ; 
The  envenom'd  phial,  and  the  fatal  ball ; 
The  strangling  cord,  and  suffocating  stream ; 
The  loathsome  rottenness,  and  foul  decays 
From  raging  riot  (slower  suicides)  ; 
And  pride  in  these,  more  execrable  still ! — 
How  horrid  all  to  thought ! — But  horrors,  these, 
That  vouch  the  truth  ;  and  aid  my  feeble  song. 

From  vice,  sense,  fancy,  no  man  can  be  blest : 
Bliss  is  too  great,  to  lodge  within  an  hour  : 
When  an  immortal  being  aims  at  bliss, 
Duration  is  essential  to  the  name. 
0  for  a  joy  from  reason  !  joy  from  that, 
Which  makes  man,  man  ;  and  exercis'd  aright, 


352  THE     COMPLAINT. 


Will  make  him  more  :  a  bounteous  joy  !  that  gives. 

And  promises  ;  that  weaves,  with  art  divine, 

The  richest  prospect  into  present  peace  ; 

A  joy  ambitious  !  joy  in  common  held 

With  thrones  ethereal,  and  their  greater  far  : 

A  joy  high-privileg'd  from  chance,  time,  death  ! 

A  joy,  which  death  shall  double  !  judgment,  crown  ! 

Crown'd  higher,  and  still  higher,  at  each  stage, 

Thro'  blest  eternity's  long  day  ;  yet  still. 

Not  more  remote  from  sorrow,  than  from  him, 

Whose  lavish  hand,  whose  love  stupendous,  pours, 

So  much  of  Deity  on  guilty  dust. 

There,  0  my  Lucia  !  may  I  meet  thee  there. 

Where  not  thy  presence  can  improve  my  bliss ! 

Affects  not  this  the  sages  of  the  world  ? 
Can  nought  affect  them,  but  what  fools  them  too  ? 
Eternity,  depending  on  an  hour. 
Makes  serious  thought  man's  wisdom,  joy,  and  praise. 
Nor  need  you  blush  (tho'  sometimes  your  designs 
May  shun  the  light)  at  your  designs  on  heaven  ; 
Sole  point !  where  over- bashful  is  your  blame. 
Are  you  not  wise  ? — You  know  you  are  :  yet  hear 


NIGHT     VIII.  353 


One  truth,  amid  your  num'rous  schemes,  mislaid, 

Or  overlook'd,  or  thrown  aside,  if  seen ; 

*'  Our  schemes  to  plan  by  this  world,  or  the  next. 

Is  the  sole  diflf'rence  between  wise,  and  fool." 

All  worthy  men  will  weigh  you  in  this  scale ; 

What  wonder,  then,  if  they  pronounce  you  light  ? 

Is  their  esteem  alone  not  worth  your  care  ? 

Accept  my  simple  scheme  of  common  sense  ; 

Thus,  save  your  fame,  and  make  two  worlds  your  own. 

The  world  replies  not ; — but  the  world  persists  ; 
And  puts  the  cause  off  to  the  longest  day. 
Planning  evasions  for  the  day  of  doom. 
So  far,  at  that  re-hearing,  from  redress. 
They  then  turn  witnesses  against  themselves. 
Hear  that,  Lorenzo  !  nor  be  wise  to-morrow. 
Haste,  haste,  a  man  by  nature,  is  in  haste ; 
For  who  shall  answer  for  another  hour  ? 
'Tis  highly  prudent  to  make  one  sure  Friend ; 
And  that  thou  canst  not  do,  this  side  the  skies. 

Ye  sons  of  earth  !  (nor  willing  to  be  more !) 
Since  verse  you  think  from  priestcraft  somewhat  free, 
Thus,  in  an  age  so  gay,  the  muse  plain  truths 


354  THE     COMPLAINT. 

(Truths,  which,  at  church,  you  might  have  heard  in 

prose) 
Has  ventur'd  into  hght ;  well-pleased  the  verse 
Should  be  forgot,  if  you  the  truths  retain ; 
And  crown  her  with  your  welfare,  not  your  praise. 
But  praise  she  need  not  fear :  I  see  my  fate  ; 
And  headlong  leap,  like  Curtius,  down  the  gulf. 
Since  many  an  ample  volume,  mighty  tome. 
Must  die  ;  and  die  unwept ;  0  thou  minute. 
Devoted  Page  ;  go  forth  among  thy  foes  ; 
Go,  nobly  proud  of  martyrdom  for  truth. 
And  die  a  double  death :  mankind,  incens'd. 
Denies  thee  long  to  live  :  nor  shalt  thou  rest. 
When  thou  art  dead ;  in  Stygian  shades  arraign'd 
By  Lucifer,  as  traitor  to  his  throne  ; 
And  bold  blasphemer  of  his  friend, — The  World  ; 
The  World,  whose  legions  cost  him  slender  pay. 
And  volunteers,  around  his  banner  swarm  • 
Prudent,  as  Prussia,  in  her  zeal  for  Gaul. 

"  Are  all,  then,  fools  ?"  Lorenzo  cries — Yes,  all. 
But  such  as  hold  this  doctrine  (new  to  thee) ; 
"  The  mother  of  true  wisdom  is  the  will ;" 


NIGHT     VIII,  355 


The  noblest  intellect,  a  fool  without  it. 

World-wisdom  much  has  done,  and  more  may  do, 

In  arts  and  sciences,  in  wars,  and  peace ; 

But  art  and  science,  like  thy  wealth,  will  leave  thee, 

And  make  thee  twice  a  beggar  at  thy  death. 

This  is  the  most  indulgence  can  afford ; — 

"  Thy  wisdom  all  can  do,  but — make  thee  wise.'* 

Nor  think  this  censure  is  severe  on  thee ; 

Satan,  thy  master,  I  dare  call  a  dunce. 


NIGHT  IX. 

THE    CONSOLATION. 
Fatis  Contraria  Fata  rependens. — Vina. 


INSCRIBED    TO   HIS    GRACE    THE    DUKE    OF    NEWCASTLE, 

ONE    OF   HIS    majesty's    PRINCIPAL    SECRETARIES    OF    STATE. 


A    MORAL    SURVEY    OF    THE    NOCTURNAL    HEAVENS A 

NIGHT    ADDRESS    TO    THE    DIETY. 

As  when  a  traveller,  a  long  day  past 

In  painful  search  of  what  he  cannot  find, 

At  night's  approach,  content  with  the  next  cot. 

There  ruminates,  awhile,  his  labor  lost ; 

Then  cheers  his  heart  with  what  his  fate  affords. 

And  chants  his  sonnet  to  deceive  the  time, 

Till  the  due  season  calls  him  to  repose : 

Thus  I,  long-travell'd  in  the  ways  of  men, 

And  dancing,  with  the  rest,  the  giddy  maze. 


NIGHT     IX.  357 


Where  disappointment  smiles  at  hope's  career  ; 

Warn'd  by  the  languor  of  life's  ev'ning  ray, 

At  length,  have  hous'd  me  in  an  humble  shed ; 

Where,  future  wand'ring  banish'd  from  my  thought, 

And  waiting,  patient,  the  sweet  hour  of  rest ; 

I  chase  the  moments  with  a  serious  song. 

Song  soothes  our  pains ;  and  age  has  pains  to  soothe. 

When  age,  care,  crime,  and  friends  embrac'd  at  heart. 
Torn  from  my  bleeding  breast,  and  death's  dark  shade, 
Which  hovers  o'er  me,  quench  th'  ethereal  fire ; 
Canst  thou,  0  nio-ht !  induloje  one  labor  more  ? 
One  labor  more  indulge :  then  sleep,  my  strain  ! 
Till,  haply,  wak'd  by  Raphael's  golden  lyre. 
Where  night,  death,  age,  care,  crime,  and  sorrow,  cease  ; 
To  bear  a  part  in  everlasting  lays  ; 
Tho'  far,  far  higher  set,  in  aim,  I  trust, 
Symphonious  to  this  humble  prelude  here. 

Has  not  the  muse  asserted  pleasures  pure, 
Like  those  above  ;  exploding  other  joys  ? 
Weigh  what  was  urg'd,  Lorenzo  !     Fairly  weigh ; 
And  tell  me,  hast  thou  cause  to  triumph  still  ? 
I  think,  thou  wilt  forbear  a  boast  so  bold. 


358  THE     CONSOLATION 


But  if,  beneath  the  favor  of  mistake, 

Thy  smile  's  sincere  ;  not  more  sincere  can  be 

Lorenzo's  smile,  than  my  compassion  for  him. 

The  sick  in  body  call  for  aid ;  the  sick 

In  mind  are  covetous  of  more  disease  ; 

And  when  at  worst,  they  dream  themselves  quite  well. 

To  know  ourselves  diseas'd,  is  half  our  cure. 

When  nature's  blush  by  custom  is  wip'd  off. 

And  conscience,  deaden'd  by  repeated  strokes, 

Has  into  manners  naturaliz'd  our  crimes ; 

The  curse  of  curses  is,  our  curse  to  love  ; 

To  triumph  in  the  blackness  of  our  guilt, 

(As  Indians  glory  in  the  deepest  jet) ; 

And  throw  aside  our  senses,  with  our  peace. 

But,  grant  no  guilt,  no  shame,  no  least  alloy  ; 
Grant  joy  and  glory,  quite  unsuUied,  shone  ; 
Yet,  still,  it  ill  deserves  Lorenzo's  heart. 
No  joy,  no  glory,  glitters  in  thy  sight. 
But,  thro'  the  thin  partition  of  an  hour, 
I  see  its  sables  wove  by  destiny. 
And  that  in  sorrow  buried  ;  this,  in  shame ; 
While  howling  furies  ring  the  doleful  knell ; 


GHT    IX.  359 


And  conscience,  now  so  soft  thou  scarce  canst  hear 
Her  whisper,  echoes  their  eternal  peal. 

Where,  the  prime  actors  of  the  last  year's  scene ; 
Their  port  so  proud,  their  buskin,  and  their  plume  ? 
How  m-any  sleep,  who  kept  the  world  awake 
With  lustre,  and  with  noise  !     Has  death  proclaim'd 
A  truce,  and  hung  his  sated  lance  on  high  ? 
'Tis  brandish 'd  still ;  nor  shall  the  present  year 
Be  more  tenacious  of  her  human  leaf, 
Or  spread  of  feeble  life  a  thinner  fall. 

But  needless  monuments  to  wake  the  thought ; 
Life's  gayest  scenes  speak  man's  mortality ; 
Tho'  in  a  style  more  florid,  full  as  plain, 
As  mausoleums,  pyramids,  and  tombs. 
What  are  our  noblest  ornaments,  but  deaths 
Turn'd  flatterers  of  life,  in  paint,  or  marble. 
The  well-stain'd  canvas,  or  the  featur'd  stone  ? 
Our  fathers  grace,  or  rather  haunt,  the  scene ; 
Joy  peoples  her  pavilion  from  the  dead. 

"  Profess'd  diversions  !  cannot  these  escape  ?" — 
Far  from  it :  these  present  us  with  a  shroud  ; 
And  talk  of  death,  like  garlands  o'er  a  grave. 


360  THE     CONSOLATION. 


As  some  bold  plunderers,  for  buried  wealth, 
We  ransack  tombs  for  pastime ;  from  the  dust 
Call  up  the  sleeping  hero ;  bid  him  tread 
The  scene  for  our  amusement :  how  like  gods 
We  sit ;  and,  wrapt  in  immortality, 
Shed  gen'rous  tears  on  wretches  born  to  die  ; 
Their  fate  deploring,  to  forget  our  own ! 

What,  all  the  pomps,  and  triumphs  of  our  lives, 
But  legacies  in  blossom  ?     Our  lean  soil, 
Luxuriant  grown,  and  rank  in  vanities. 
From  friends  interr'd  beneath  ;  a  rich  manure  ! 
Like  other  worms,  we  banquet  on  the  dead ; 
Like  other  worms,  shall  we  crawl  on,  nor  know 
Our  present  frailties,  or  approaching  fate  ? 

Lorenzo !  sucli  the  glories  of  the  world  ! 
What  is  the  world  itself?  thy  world? — A  grave. 
Where  is  the  dust  that  has  not  been  alive  ? 
The  spade,  the  plough,  disturb  our  ancestors ; 
From  human  mould  we  reap  our  daily  bread. 
The  globe  around  earth's  hollow  surface  shakes, 
And  is  the  ceiling  of  her  sleeping  sons. 
O'er  devastation  we  blind  revels  keep  ; 


NIGHT     IX.  361 


Whole  buried  towns  support  the  dancer's  heel. 
The  moist  of  human  frame  the  sun  exhales  ; 
Winds  scatter,  thro'  the  mighty  void,  the  dry ; 
Earth  repossesses  part  of  what  she  gave. 
And  the  freed  spirit  mounts  on  wings  of  fire ; 
Each  element  partakes  our  scatter'd  spoils  ; 
As  nature,  wide,  our  ruins  spread  ;  man's  death 
Inhabits  all  things,  but  the  thought  of  man. 

Nor  man  alone  ;  his  breathing  bust  expires. 
His  tomb  is  mortal ;  empires  die  :  where,  now, 
The  Roman  ?  Greek  ?     They  stalk,  an  empty  name  ! 
Yet  few  regard  them  in  this  useful  light ; 
Tho'  half  our  learning  is  their  epitaph. 
When  down  thy  vale,  unlock'd  by  midnight  thought. 
That  loves  to  wander  in  thy  sunless  realms, 
0  death  !  I  stretch  my  view  ;  what  visions  rise  ! 
What  triumphs  !  toils  imperial !  arts  divine  ! 
In  wither'd  laurels  glide  before  my  sight  ? 
What  lengths  of  far-fam'd  ages,  billow'd  high 
With  human  agitation,  roll  along 
In  unsubstantial  images  of  air  ! 
The  melancholy  ghosts  of  dead  renown. 


16 


362  THE      CONSOLATION. 

i 

Whisp'ring  faint  echoes  of  the  world's  applause, 

With  penitential  aspect,  as  they  pass, 

All  point  at  earth,  and  hiss  at  human  pride. 

The  wisdom  of  the  wise,  and  prancings  of  the  great. 

But,  0  Lorenzo !  far  the  rest  above 
Of  ghastly  nature,  and  enormous  size, 
One  form  assaults  my  sight,  and  chills  my  blood, 
And  shakes  my  frame.     Of  one  departed  world 
T  see  the  mighty  shadow ;  oozy  wreath 
And  dismal  sea- weed  crown  her ;  o'er  her  urn 
Reclin'd,  she  weeps  her  desolated  realms, 
And  bloated  sons  ;  and,  weeping,  prophesies 
Another's  dissolution,  soon,  in  flames. 
But,  like  Cassandra,  prophesies  in  vain ; 
In  vain,  to  many ;  not,  I  trust,  to  thee. 

For,  know'st  thou  not,  or  art  thou  loth  to  know, 
The  great  decree,  the  counsel  of  the  skies  ? 
Deluge  and  conflagration,  dreadful  powers ! 
Prime  ministers  of  vengeance  !  chain'd  in  caves 
Distinct,  apart  the  gaint  furies  roar ; 
Apart  ;  or  such  their  horrid  rage  for  ruin, 
In  mutual  conflict  would  they  rise,  and  wage 


NIGHT     IX.  363 


Eternal  war,  till  one  was  quite  devour'd. 
But  not  for  this,  ordain'd  their  boundless  rage ; 
When  Heav'n's  inferior  instruments  of  wrath, 
War,  famine,  pestilence,  are  found  too  weak 
To  scourge  a  world  for  her  enormous  crimes, 
These  are  let  loose,  alternate :  down  they  rush. 
Swift  and  tempestuous,  from  th'  eternal  throne, 
With  irresistible  commission  arm'd. 
The  world,  in  vain  corrected,  to  destroy, 
And  ease  creation  of  the  shocking  scene. 

Seest  thou,  Lorenzo  !  what  depends  on  man  ? 
The  fate  of  nature  ;  as  for  man,  her  birth. 
Earth's  actors  change  earth's  transitory  scenes. 
And  make  creation  groan  with  human  guilt. 
How  must  it  groan,  in  a  new  deluge  whelm'd, 
But  not  of  waters  !     At  the  destin'd  hour. 
By  the  loud  trumpet  summon'd  to  the  charge, 
See,  all  the  formidable  sons  of  fire. 
Eruptions,  earthquakes,  comets,  lightnings,  play 
Their  various  engines  ;  all  at  once  disgorge 
Their  blazing  magazines ;  and  take,  by  storm, 
This  poor  terrestrial  citadel  of  man. 


364  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Amazing  period  !  when  each  mountain-height 
Outburns  Vesuvius;  rocks  eternal  pour 
Their  melted  mass,  as  rivers  once  they  pour'd; 
Stars  rush ;  and  final  ruin  fiercely  drives 
Her  ploughshare  o'er  creation  ! — while  aloft, 
More  than  astonishment !  if  more  can  be  ! 
Far  other  firmament  than  e'er  was  seen, 
Than  e'er  was  thought  by  man  !  far  other  stars  ! 
Stars  animate,  that  govern  these  of  fire  ; 
Far  other  sun  ! — a  sun,  0  how  unlike 
The  babe  at  Bethle'm !  how  unlike  the  man 
That  groan'd  on  Calvary  ! — Yet  he  it  is  ; 
That  man  of  sorrows  !    O  how  chang'd  !    What  pomp  ! 
In  grandeur  terrible,  all  heav'n  descends  ! 
And  gods,  ambitious,  triumph  in  his  train. 
A  swift  archangel,  with  his  golden  wing, 
As  blots  and  clouds,  that  darken  and  disgrace 
The  scene  divine,  sweeps  stars  and  suns  aside. 
And  nov/,  all  dross  remov'd,  Heav'n's  own  pure  day, 
Full  on  the  confines  of  our  aether,  flames. 
While  (dreadful  contrast  !)  far,  how  far  beneath! 
Hell  bursting,  belches  forth  her  blazing  seas, 


NIGHT     IX.  365 


And  storms  sulphureous  ;  her  voracious  jaws 
Expanding  wide,  and  roaring  for  her  prey. 

Lorenzo  !  welcome  to  this  scene  ;  the  last 
In  nature's  course ;  the  first  in  wisdom's  thought. 
This  strikes,  if  aught  can  strike  thee ;  this  awakes 
The  most  supine ;  this  snatches  man  from  death. 
Rouse,  rouse,  Lorenzo,  then,  and  follow  me. 
Where  truth,  the  most  momentous  man  can  hear, 
Loud  calls  my  soul,  and  ardor  wings  her  flight, 
I  find  my  inspiration  in  my  theme ; 
The  grandeur  of  my  subject  is  my  muse. 

At  midnight,  when  mankind  is  wrapt  in  peace. 
And  worldly  fancy  feeds  on  golden  dreams : 
To  give  more  dread  to  man's  most  dreadful  hour. 
At  midnight,  'tis  presum'd,  this  pomp  will  burst      "'' 
From  tenfold  darkness ;  sudden,  as  the  spark 
From  smitten  steel ;  from  nitrous  grain,  the  blaze. 
Man,  starting  from  his  couch,  shall  sleep  no  more ! 
The  day  is  broke,  which  never  more  shall  close ! 
Above,  around,  beneath,  amazement  all ! 
Terror  and  glory  join'd  in  their  extremes  . 
Our  God  in  grandeur,  and  our  world  on  fire ! 


366  THE     CONSOLATION. 

All  nature  struggling  in  the  pangs  of  death  ! 

Dost  thou  not  hear  her  ?  dost  thou  not  deplore 

Her  strong  convulsions,  and  her  final  groan  ? 

Where  are  we  now  ?     Ah  me  !  the  ground  is  gone. 

On  which  we  stood,  Lorenzo !     While  thou  mayst. 

Provide  more  firm  support,  or  sink  forever  ! 

Where  ?  how  ?  from  whence  ?     Vain  hope  !  it  is  too 

late! 
Where,  where,  for  shelter,  shall  the  guilty  fly. 
When  consternation  turns  the  good  man  pale  ? 

Great  day  !  for  which  all  other  days  were  made ; 
For  which  earth  rose  from  chaos ;  man  from  earth ; 
And  an  eternity,  the  date  of  gods. 
Descended  on  poor  earth-created  man  ! 
Great  day  of  dread,  decision,  and  despair ! 
At  thought  of  thee,  each  sublunary  wish 
Lets  go  its  eager  grasp,  and  drops  the  world  ; 
And  catches  at  each  reed  of  hope  in  heaven. 
At  thought  of  thee ! — And  art  thou  absent  then  ? 
Lorenzo !  no ;  'tis  here ; — it  is  begun ; — 
Already  is  begun  the  grand  assize, 
In  thee,  in  all :  deputed  conscience  scales 


NIGHT     IX.  367 


The  dread  tribunal,  and  forestalls  our  doom ; 
Forestalls ;  and,  by  forestalling,  proves  it  sure. 
Why  on  himself  should  man  void  judgment  pass  ? 
Is  idle  nature  laughing  at  her  sons  ? 
Who  conscience  sent,  her  sentence  will  support, 
And  God  above  assert  that  God  in  man. 

Thrice  happy  they !  that  enter  now  the  court 
Heav'n  opens  in  their  bosoms  :  but,  how  rare. 
Ah  me  !  that  magnanimity,  how  rare  ! 
What  hero,  like  the  man  who  stands  himself; 
Who  dares  to  meet  his  naked  heart  alone ; 
Who  hears,  intrepid,  the  full  charge  it  brings, 
Resolv'd  to  silence  future  murmurs  there  ? 
The  coward  flies  ;  and,  flying,  is  undone. 
(Art  thou  a  coward  ?     No) :  the  coward  flies ; 
Thinks,  but  thinks  slightly ;  asks,  but  fears  to  know ; 
Asks,  "  What  is  truth  ?"  with  Pilate  ;  and  retires  ; 
Dissolves  the  court,  and  mingles  with  the  throng ; 
Asylum  sad !  from  reason,  hope,  and  Heav'n ! 

Shall  all,  but  man,  look  out  with  ardent  eye, 
For  that  great  day,  which  was  ordain'd  for  man  ? 
0  day  of  consummation  !  mark  supreme 


368  THE     CONSOLATION. 

(If  men  are  wise)  of  human  thought  !  nor  least. 

Or  in  the  sight  of  angels,  or  their  King  ! 

Ansrels,  whose  radiant  circles,  heio-ht  o'er  heisjht. 

Order  o'er  order,  rising,  blaze  o'er  blaze. 

As  in  a  theatre,  surround  this  scene. 

Intent  on  man,  and  anxious  for  his  fate. 

Angels  look  out  for  thee,  for  thee,  their  Lord, 

To  vindicate  his  glory ;  and  for  thee, 

Creation  universal  calls  aloud, 

To  disinvolve  the  moral  world,  and  give 

To  nature's  renovation  brighter  charms. 

Shall  man  alone,  whose  fate,  whose  final  fate. 
Hangs  on  that  hour,  exclude  it  from  his  thought  ? 
I  think  of  nothing  else  ;  I  see  !  I  feel  it ! 
All  nature,  like  an  earthquake,  trembling  round ! 
All  deities,  like  summer's  swarms,  on  wing ! 
All  basking  in  the  full  meridian  blaze  ! 
I  see  the  Judge  enthron'd  !  the  flaming  guard ! 
The  volume  open'd !  open'd  every  heart ! 
A  sunbeam  pointing  out  each  secret  thought ! 
No  patron  !  intercessor  none  !  now  past 
The  sweet,  the  clement,  mediatorial  hour ! 


NIGHT     IX   .  369 


For  guilt  no  plea !  to  pain,  no  pause  !  no  bound  ! 
Inexorable,  all !  and  all,  extreme  ! 

Nor  man  alone ;  the  foe  of  God  and  man. 
From  his  dark  den,  blaspheming,  drags  his  chain. 
And  rears  his  brazen  front,  with  thunder  scarr'd; 
Receives  his  sentence,  and  begins  his  hell. 
All  vengeance  past,  now,  seems  abundant  grace : 
Like  meteors  in  a  stormy  sky,  how  roll 
His  baleful  eyes  !  he  curses  whom  he  dreads ; 
And  deems  it  the  first  moment  of  his  fall. 

'Tis  present  to  my  thought ! — And,  yet,  where  is  it  ? 
Angels  can't  tell  me ;  angels  cannot  guess 
The  period ;  from  created  beings  lock'd 
In  darkness.     But  the  process,  and  the  place, 
Are  less  obscure ;  for  these  may  man  inquire. 
Say,  thou  great  close  of  human  hopes  and  fears ! 
Great  key  of  hearts  !  great  finisher  of  fates  ! 
Great  end !  and  great  beginning  !  say,  Where  art  thou  ? 
Art  thou  in  time,  or  in  eternity  ? 
Nor  in  eternity,  nor  time,  I  find  thee. 
These,  as  two  monarchs,  on  their  borders  meet, 
(Monarchs  of  all  elaps'd,  or  unarriv'd  ! ) 


16' 


3*70  THE     CONSOLATION. 

As  in  debate,  how  best  their  powers  alUed 
May  swell  the  grandeur,  or  discharge  the  wrath, 
Of  Him,  whom  both  their  monarchies  obey. 

Time,  this  vast  fabric  for  him  built  (and  doom'd 
With  him  to  fall)  now  bursting  o'er  his  head ; 
His  lamp,  the  sun,  extinguish'd ;  from  beneath 
The  frown  of  hideous  darkness,  calls  his  sons 
From  their  long  slumber ;  from  earth's  heaving  womb 
To  second  birth  ;  contemporary  throng  ! 
Rous'd  at  one  call,  upstarting  from  one  bed, 
Press'd  in  one  crowd,  appall'd  with  one  amaze, 
He  turns  them  o'er.  Eternity !  to  thee. 
Then  (as  a  king  depos'd  disdains  to  live) 
He  falls  on  his  own  scythe  ;  nor  falls  alone ; 
His  greatest  foe  falls  with  him ;  Time,  and  he 
Who  murder'd  all  Time's  offspring,  Death,  expire. 

Time  was  !    Eternity  now  reigns  alone  ! 
Awful  Eternity  !  offended  queen ! 
And  her  resentment  to  mankind,  how  just ! 
With  kind  intent  soliciting  access. 
How  often  has  she  knock'd  at  human  hearts ! 
Rich  to  repay  their  hospitality. 


NIGHT     IX.  3*71 

How  often  call'd !  and  with  the  voice  of  God ! 
Yet  bore  repulse,  excluded  as  a  cheat ! 
A  dream  !  while  foulest  foes  found  welcome  there ! 
A  dream,  a  cheat,  now  all  things  but  her  smile. 

For,  lo !  her  twice  ten  thousand  gates  thrown  wide, 
As  thrice  from  Indus  to  the  frozen  pole. 
With  banners,  streaming  as  the  comet's  blaze, 
And  clarions,  louder  than  the  deep  in  storms. 
Sonorous,  as  immortal  breaih  can  blow. 
Pour  forth  their  myriads,  potentates,  and  powers, 
Of  light,  of  darkness  ;  in  a  middle  field. 
Wide,  as  creation  !  populous,  as  wide  ! 
A  neutral  region  !  there  to  mark  th'  event 
Of  that  great  drama,  whose  preceding  scenes 
Detain'd  them  close  spectators,  thro'  a  length 
Of  ages,  rip'ning  to  this  grand  result ; 
Ages,  as  yet  unnumber'd  but  by  God ; 
Who  now,  pronouncing  sentence,  vindicates 
The  rights  of  virtue,  and  his  own  renown. 

Eternity,  the  various  sentence  past, 
Assigns  the  sever'd  throng  distinct  abodes, 
Sulphureous,  or  ambrosial :    What  ensues  ? 


Sl2  THE     CONSOLATION. 

The  deed  predominant !  the  deed  of  deeds  ! 
Which  makes  a  hell  of  hell,  a  heav'n  of  heav'n. 
The  goddess,  with  determin'd  aspect,  turns 
Her  adamantine  key's  enormous  size 
Thro'  destiny's  inextricable  wards, 
Deep  driving  ev'ry  bolt,  on  both  their  fates. 
Then,  from  the  crystal  battlements  of  heaven, 
Down,  down,  she  hurls  it  thro'  the  dark  profound, 
Ten  thousand  thousand  fathom ;  there  to  rust. 
And  ne'er  unlock  her  resolution  more. 
The  deep  resounds,  and  hell,  thro'  all  her  glooms. 
Returns,  in  groans,  the  melancholy  roar. 
0  how  unlike  the  chorus  of  the  skies ! 
0  how  unlike  those  shouts  of  joy,  that  shake 
The  whole  ethereal !     How  the  concave  rings 
Nor  strange  !  when  deities  their  voice  exalt ; 
And  louder  far,  than  when  creation  rose. 
To  see  creation's  godlike  aim,  and  end. 
So  well  accompHsh'd  !  so  divinely  clos'd ! 
To  see  the  mighty  Dramatist's  last  act 
(As  meet)  in  glory  rising  o'er  the  rest. 
No  fancied  god,  a  God  indeed,  descends. 


NIGHT     IX.  373 


To  solve  all  knots  ;  to  strike  the  moral  home  ; 
To  throw  full  day  on  darkest  scenes  of  time ; 
To  clear,  commend,  exalt,  and  crown  the  whole. 
Hence,  in  one  peal  of  loud,  eternal  praise. 
The  charm'd  spectators  thunder  their  applause ; 
And  the  vast  void  beyond,  applause  resounds. 

What  then  am  I  ? 

Amidst  applauding  worlds. 
And  worlds  celestial,  is  there  found  on  earth, 
A  peevish,  dissonant,  rebellious  string, 
Which  jars  in  the  grand  chorus,  and  complains  ? 
Censure  on  thee,  Lorenzo  !  T  suspend, 
And  turn  it  on  myself ;  how  greatly  due  ! 
All,  all  is  right,  by  God  ordain'd,  or  done ; 
And  who,  but  God,  resum'd  the  friends  he  gave  ? 
And  have  I  been  complaining,  then,  so  long  ? 
Complaining  of  his  favors  ;  pain,  and  death  ? 
Who,  without  pain's  advice,  would  e'er  be  good  ? 
Who,  without  death,  but  would  be  good  in  vain? 
Pain  is  to  save  from  pain ;  all  punishment. 
To  make  for  peace ;  and  death  to  save  from  death ; 
And  second  death,  to  guard  immortal  life ; 


3Y4  THE     CONSOLATION. 

To  rouse  the  careless,  the  presumptuous  awe, 
And  turn  the  tide  of  souls  another  way ; 
By  the  same  tenderness  divine  ordain'd. 
That  planted  Eden,  and  high-bloom'd  for  man, 
A  fairer  Eden,  endless,  in  the  skies. 

Heav'n  gives  us  friends  to  bless  th6  present  scene 
Resumes  them,  to  prepare  us  foi  the  next. 
All  evils  natural  are  moral  goods ; 
All  discipline,  indulgence,  on  the  whole. 
None  are  unhappy ;  all  have  cause  to  smile. 
But  such  as  to  themselves  that  cause  deny. 
Our  faults  are  at  the  bottom  of  our  pains ; 
Error,  in  act  or  judgment,  is  the  source 
Of  endless  sighs :    We  sin,  or  we  mistake. 
And  nature  tax,  when  false  opinion  stings. 
Let  impious  grief  be  banish'd,  joy  indulg'd  ; 
But  chiefly  then,  when  grief  puts  in  her  claim, 
Joy  from  the  joyous,  frequently  betrays, 
Oft  lives  in  vanity,  and  dies  in  woe. 
Joy,  amidst  ills,  corroborates,  exalts ; 
'Tis  joy,  and  conquest;  joy,  and  virtue  too. 
A  noble  fortitude  in  ills  delights 


NIGHT     IX. 


375 


Heav'n,  earth,  ourselves ;  'tis  duty,  glory,  peace. 

Affliction  is  the  good  man's  shining  scene ; 

Prosperity  conceals  his  brightest  ray  ; 

As  night  to  stars,  woe  lustre  gives  to  man. 

Heroes  in  battle,  pilots  in  the  storm, 

And  virtue  in  calamities,  admire. 

The  crown  of  manhood  is  a  winter-joy ; 

An  evergreen,  that  stands  the  northern  blast. 

And  blossoms  in  the  rigor  of  our  fate. 

'Tis  a  prime  part  of  happiness,  to  know 
How  much  unhappiness  must  prove  our  lot ; 
A  part  which  few  possess !    I  '11  pay  life's  tax, 
Without  one  rebel  murmur,  from  this  hour, 
Nor  think  it  misery  to  be  a  man ; 
Who  thinks  it  is,  shall  never  be  a  god. 
Some  ills  we  wish  for,  when  we  wish  to  live. 

What   spoke   proud  passion  ?* — "  With    my  being 
lost!" 
Presumptuous !  blasphemous  !  absurd  !  and  false  ! 
The  triumph  of  my  soul  is, — that  I  am  ; 
And  therefore  tliat  I  may  be — What  ?     Lorenzo  ! 
*  Referring  to  the  First  Night, 


3Y6  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Look  inward,  and  look  deep  ;  and  deeper  stili ;    • 

Unfathomably  deep  our  treasure  runs 

In  golden  veins,  thro'  all  eternity  ! 

Ages,  and  ages,  and  succeeding  still 

New  ages,  where  this  phantom  of  an  hour. 

Which  courts,  each  night,  dull  slumbers  for  repair. 

Shall  wake,  and  wonder,  and  exult,  and  praise, 

And  fly  thro'  infinite,  and  all  unlock  ; 

And  (if  deserv'd)  by  heav'n's  redundant  love, 

Made  half-adorable  itself,  adore  ; 

And  find,  in  adoration,  endless  joy  ! 

Where  thou,  not  master  of  a  moment  here, 

Frail  as  the  flow'r,  and  fleeting  as  the  gale, 

Mayst  boast  a  whole  eternity,  enrich'd 

With  all  a  kind  Omnipotence  can  pour. 

Since  Adam  fell,  no  mortal,  uninspir'd, 

Has  ever  yet  conceived,  or  ever  shall. 

How  kind  is  God,  how  great  (if  good)  is  man. 

No  man  too  largely  from  heav'n's  love  can  hope. 

If  what  is  hop'd  he  labors  to  secure. 

Ills?  There  are  none :  All-Gracious!  none  from  Thee ; 
From  man  full  many !  num'rous  is  the  race 


NIGHT     IX.  377 


Of  blackest  ills,  and  those  immortal  too, 

Begot  by  madness  on  fair  liberty  ; 

Heav'n's  daughter,  hell-debauch'd  !  her  hand  alone 

Unlocks  destruction  to  the  sons  of  men, 

Fast  barr'd  by  thine  ;  high-wall'd  with  adamant. 

Guarded  with  terrors,  reaching  to  this  world, 

And  cover'd  with  the  thunders  of  thy  law  ; 

Whose  threats  are  mercies,  whose  injunctions,  guides, 

Assisting,  not  restraining,  reason's  choice ; 

Whose  sanctions,  unavoidable  results 

From  nature's  course,  indulgently  reveal'd  ; 

If  unreveal'd,  more  dangerous,  nor  less  sure. 

Thus,  an  indulgent  Father  warns  his  sons, 

"  Do  this  ;  fly  that" — nor  always  tells  the  cause ; 

Pleas'd  to  reward  as  duty  to  his  will, 

A  conduct  needful  to  their  own  repose. 

Great  God  of  wonders !  (if,  thy  love  survey 'd. 
Aught  else  the  name  of  wonderful  retains) 
What  rocks  are  these,  on  which  to  build  our  trust  ? 
Thy  ways  admit  no  blemish  ;  none  I  find ; 
Or  this  alone — "  that  none  is  to  be  found." 
Not  one,  to  soften  censure's  hardy  crime ; 


378  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Not  one,  to  palliate  peevish  grief's  complaint. 
Who,  like  a  demon,  murm'ring  from  the  dust, 
Dares  into  judgment  call  her  Judge. — Supreme ! 
For  all  I  bless  thee ;  most,  for  the  severe  ; 
Her*  death — my  own  at  hand — the  fiery  gulf. 
That  flaming  bound  of  wrath  Omnipotent ! 
It  thunders  ; — but  it  thunders  to  preserve  ; 
It  strengthens  what  it  strikes  ;  its  wholesome  dread 
Averts  the  dreaded  pain ;  its  hideous  groans 
Join  heav'n's  sweet  hallelujahs  in  thy  praise. 
Great  source  of  good  alone  :  how  kind  in  all ! 
In  vengeance,  kind !  pain,  deaths  Gehenna,  save. 

Thus,  in  Thy  world  material,  mighty  Mind  ! 
Not  that  alone  which  solaces,  and  shines, 
The  rough  and  gloomy  challenges  our  praise. 
The  winter  is  as  needful  as  the  spring  ; 
The  thunder,  as  the  sun ;  a  stagnate  mass 
Of  vapors  breeds  a  pestilential  air ; 
Nor  more  propitious  the  Favonian  breeze 
To  nature's  health,  than  purifying  storms ; 
The  dread  volcano  ministers  to  good. 
*  Lucia. 


NIGHT     IX.  379 


Its  smother'd  flames  might  midermine  the  world. 
Loud  ^tnas  fulminate  in  love  to  man ; 
Comets  good  omens  are,  when  duly  scann'd  ; 
And,  in  their  use,  eclipses  learn  to  shine. 

Man  is  responsible  for  ills  receiv'd  ; 
Those  we  call  wretched  are  a  chosen  band, 
Compell'd  to  refuge  in  the  right,  for  peace. 
Amid  my  list  of  blessings  infinite. 
Stand  this  the  foremost,  "  that  my  heart  has  bled." 
'Tis  heav'n's  last  effort  of  good-will  to  man  ; 
When  pain  can't  bless,  heav'n  quits  us  in  despair. 
Who  fails  to  grieve,  when  just  occasion  calls, 
Or  grieves  too  much,  deserves  not  to  be  blest , 
Inhuman,  or  effeminate,  his  heart ; 
Reason  absolves  the  grief,  which  reason  ends. 
May  heav'n  ne'er  trust  my  friend  with  happiness, 
Till  it  has  taught  him  how  to  bear  it  well. 
By  previous  pain ;  and  made  it  safe  to  smile  ! 
Such  smiles  are  mine,  and  such  may  they  remain ; 
Nor  hazard  their  extinction,  from  excess. 
My  change  of  heart  a  change  of  style  demands  ; 


380  THE     CONSOLATION. 

The  consolation  cancels  the  complaint, 
And  makes  a  convert  of  my  guilty  song 

As  when  o'erlabor'd,  and  inclined  to  breathe, 
A  panting  traveller  some  rising  ground, 
Some  small  ascent  has  gain'd,  he  turns  him  round. 
And  measures  with  his  eye  the  various  vale, 
The  fields,  woods,  meads,  and  rivers  he  has  past ; 
And,  satiate  of  his  journey,  thinks  of  home 
Endear'd  by  distance,  nor  affects  more  toil ; 
Thus  I,  though  small,  indeed,  is  that  ascent 
The  muse  has  gain'd,  review  the  paths  she  trod ; 
Various,  extensive,  beaten  but  by  few ; 
And,  conscious  of  her  prudence  in  repose, 
Pause  ;  and  with  pleasure  meditate  an  end. 
Though  still  remote  ;  so  fruitful  is  my  theme. 
Thro'  many  a  field  of  moral,  and  divine. 
The  muse  has  stray'd  ;  and  much  of  sorrow  seen 
In  human  ways  :  and  much  of  false  and  vain ; 
Which  none,  who  travel  this  bad  road,  can  miss. 
O'er  friends  deceas'd  full  heartily  she  wept ; 
Of  love  divine  the  wonders  she  display'd ; 
Prov'd  man  immortal ;  show'd  the  source  of  joy  ; 


NIGHT     IX   .  381 


The  grand  tribunal  rais'd  ;  assign'd  the  bounds 
Of  human  grief:  in  few,  to  close  the  whole, 
The  moral  muse  has  shadow'd  out  a  sketch, 
Though  not  in  form,  nor  with  a  Raphael-stroke, 
Of  most  our  weakness  needs  believe,  or  do. 
In  this  our  land  of  travel,  and  of  hope. 
For  peace  on  earth,  or  prospect  of  the  skies. 

What  then  remains  ? — Much  !  much  !  a  mighty  debt 
To  be  discharged :  these  thoughts,  0  night !  are  thine ; 
Fi'om  thee  they  came,  like  lovers'  secret  sighs. 
While  others  slept.     So,  Cynthia  (poets  feign) 
In  shadows  veil'd,  soft  shding  from  her  sphere. 
Her  shepherd  cheer'd  ;  of  her  enamor'd  less 
Than  I  of  thee.     And  art  thou  still  unsung, 
Beneath  whose  brow,  and  by  whose  aid  I  sing. 

Immortal  silence ! Where  shall  I  begin  ? 

Where  end  ?     Or  how  steal  music  from  the  spheres, 
To  sooth  their  goddess  ? 

0  majestic  night ! 
Nature's  great  ancestor !  day's  elder  born ! 
And  fated  to  survive  the  transient  sun ! 
By  mortals,  and  immortals,  seen  with  awe  ! 


382  THE     CONSOLATION. 

A  starry  crown  thy  raven  brow  adorns, 

An  azure  zone,  thy  waist     clouds,  in  heav'n's  loom 

Wrought  thro'  varieties  of  shape  and  shade. 

In  ample  folds  of  drapery  divine. 

Thy  flowing  mantle  form,  and,  heav'n  throughout, 

Voluminously  pour  thy  pompous  train. 

Thy  gloomy  grandeurs  (nature's  most  august. 

Inspiring  aspect  !)  claim  a  grateful  verse  ; 

And,  like  a  fable  curtain  starr'd  with  gold, 

Drawn  o'er  my  labors  past,  shall  close  the  scene. 

And  what,  O  man  !  so  worthy  to  be  sung  ? 
What  more  prepares  us  for  the  songs  of  heaven  ? 
Creation  of  archangels  is  the  theme  ! 
What,  to  be  sung,  so  needful  ?     What  so  well 
Celestial  joys  prepares  us  to  sustain  ? 
The  soul  of  man,  His  face  designed  to  see. 
Who  gave  these  wonders  to  be  seen  by  man, 
Has  here  a  previous  scene  of  objects  great. 
On  which  to  dwell ;  to  stretch  to  that  expanse 
Of  thought,  to  rise  to  that  exalted  height 
Of  admiration,  to  contract  that  awe. 
And  give  her  whole  capacities  that  strength, 


NIGHT     IX.  383 


Which  best  may  qualify  for  final  joy. 

The  more  our  spirits  are  enlarg'd  on  earth, 

The  deeper  draught  shall  they  receive  of  heaven. 

Heav'n's  King,  whose  face  unveil'd  consummates  bliss ; 
Redundant  bliss !  which  fills  that  mighty  void. 
The  whole  creation  leaves  in  human  hearts  ! 
Thou,  who  didst  touch  the  lip  of  Jesse's  son, 
Wrapt  in  sweet  contemplation  of  these  fires, 
And  set  his  harp  in  concert  with  the  spheres ! 
While  of  thy  works  material  the  supreme 
I  dare  attempt,  assist  my  daring  song. 
Loose  me  from  earth's  inclosure,  from  the  sun's 
Contracted  circle  set  my  heart  at  large ; 
Eliminate  my  spirit,  give  it  range 
Through  provinces  of  thought  yet  unexplor'd ; 
Teach  me,  by  this  stupendous  scaffolding, 
Creation's  golden  steps,  to  climb  to  Thee. 
Teach  me  with  art  great  nature  to  control. 
And  spread  a  lustre  o'er  the  shades  of  night. 
Feel  I  thy  kind  assent  ?     And  shall  the  sun 
Be  seen  at  midnight,  rising  in  my  song  ? 

Lorenzo  !  come,  and  warm  thee  :  thou,  whose  heart. 


384  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Whose  little  heart  is  moor'd  within  a  nook 
Of  this  obscure  terrestrial,  anchor  weigh. 
Another  ocean  calls,  a  nobler  port ; 
I  am  thy  pilot,  I  thy  prosp'rous  gale. 
Gainful  thy  voyage  through  yon  azure  main ; 
Main,  without  tempest,  pirate,  rock,  or  shore ; 
And  whence  thou  mayst  import  eternal  wealth  ; 
And  leave  to  beggar'd  minds  the  pearl  and  gold. 
Thy  travels  dost  thou  boast  o'er  foreign  realms  ? 
Thou  stranger  to  the  world !  thy  tour  begin ; 
Thy  tour  through  nature's  universal  orb. 
Nature  delineates  her  whole  chart  at  large. 
On  soaring  souls,  that  sail  among  the  spheres ; 
And  man  how  purblind,  if  unknown  the  whole  ! 
Who  circles  spacious  earth,  then  travels  here. 
Shall  own,  he  never  was  from  home  before ! 
Come,  my  Prometheus,*  from  thy  pointed  rock 
Of  false  ambition  if  unchain'd,  we  '11  mount ; 
We  '11,  innocently,  steal  celestial  fire. 
And  kindle  our  devotion  at  the  stars ; 
A  theft,  that  shall  not  chain,  but  set  thee  free. 
*  Night  the  Eighth. 


NIGHT     IX.  385 


Above  our  atmosphere's  intestine  wars, 
Rain's  fountain-head,  the  magazine  of  hail. 
Above  the  northern  nests  of  feather'd  snows, 
The  brew  of  thunders,  and  the  flaming  forge 
That  forms  the  crooked  Hglitning  ;  'bove  the  caves 
Where  infant  tempests  wait  their  growing  wings. 
And  tune  their  tender  voices  to  that  roar. 
Which,  soon  perhaps,  shall  shake  a  guilty  world ; 
Above  misconstrued  omens  of  the  sky, 
Far-travell'd  comets'  calculated  blaze, 
Elance  thy  thought,  and  think  of  more  than  man. 
Thy  soul,  till  now,  contracted,  wither'd,  shrunk. 
Blighted  by  blasts  of  earth's  unwholesome  air, 
Will  blossom  here  ;  spread  all  her  faculties 
To  these  bright  ardors  ;  ev'ry  power  unfold. 
And  rise  into  sublimities  of  thought ; 
Stars  teach,  as  well  as  shine.     At  nature's  birth. 
Thus  their  commission  ran — "  Be  kind  to  man." 
Where  art  thou,  poor  benighted  traveller  ! 
The  stars  will  light  thee ;  tho'  the  moon  should  fail. 
Where  art  thou,  more  benighted !  more  astray ! 


1*7 


386  THE      CONSOLATION. 

In  ways  immoral  ?     The  stars  call  thee  back ; 
And,  if  obey'd  their  counsel,  set  thee  right. 

This  prospect  vast,  what  is  it  ? — Weigh'd  aright, 
'Tis  nature's  system  of  divinity, 
And  ev'ry  student  of  the  night  inspires. 
'Tis  elder  scripture,  writ  by  God's  own  hand  ; 
Scripture  authentic  !  uncorrupt  by  man. 
Lorenzo !  with  my  radius  (the  rich  gift 
Of  thought  nocturnal !)  I  '11  point  out  to  thee 
Its  various  lessons ;  some  that  may  surprise 
An  un-adept  in  mysteries  of  night ; 
Little,  perhaps,  expected  in  her  school, 
Nor  thought  to  grow  on  planet,  or  on  star. 
Bulls,  lions,  scorpions,  monsters  here  we  feign  ; 
Ourselves  more  monstrous,  not  to  see  what  here 
Exists  indeed ; — a  lecture  to  mankind. 

What  read  we  here  ? — Th'  existence  of  a  God  ? — 
Yes  ;  and  of  other  beings,  man  above ; 
Natives  of  aether !  sons  of  higher  climes ! 
And,  what  may  move  Lorenzo's  wonder  more. 
Eternity  is  written  in  the  skies. 
And  whose  eternity  ? — Lorenzo  !  thine  ; 


387 


Mankind's  eternity.     Nor  faith  alone, 

Virtue  grows  here ;  here  springs  the  sov'reign  cure 

Of  almost  ev'ry  vice ;  but  chiefly  thine ; 

Wrath,  pride,  ambition,  and  impure  desire. 

Lorenzo  !  thou  canst  wake  at  midnight  too, 
Tho'  not  on  morals  bent :  ambition,  pleasure ! 
Those  tyrants  I  for  thee  so  lately  fought* 
Afford  their  harass' d  slaves  but  slender  rest. 
Thou,  to  whom  midnight  is  immoral  noon. 
And  the  sun's  noontide  blaze  prime  dawn  of  day ; 
Not  by  thy  climate,  but  capricious  crime, 
Commencing  one  of  our  antipodes  ! 
In  thy  nocturnal  rove,  one  moment  halt, 
'Twixt  stage  and  stage,  of  riot,  and  cabal ; 
And  lift  thme  eye  (if  bold  an  eye  to  lift. 
If  bold  to  meet  the  face  of  injur'd  Heaven,) 
To  yonder  stars :  for  other  ends  they  shine. 
Than  to  light  revellers  from  shame  to  shame, 
And,  thus,  be  made  accomplices  in  guilt. 

Why  from  yon  arch,  that  infinite  of  space. 
With  infinite  of  lucid  orbs  replete, 

*  Night  the  Eighth. 


388  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Which  set  the  living  firmament  on  fire, 

At  the  first  glance,  in  such  an  overwhelm 

Of  wonderful,  on  man's  astonish'd  sight. 

Rushes  Omnipotence  ? — To  curb  our  pride  ; 

Our  reason  rouse,  and  lead  it  to  that  Power, 

Whose  love  lets  down  these  silver  chains  of  light ; 

To  draw  up  man's  ambition  to  himself, 

And  bind  our  chaste  affections  to  his  throne. 

Thus  the  three  virtues,  least  alive  on  earth, 

And  welcomed  on  heav'n's  coast  with  most  applause, 

An  humble,  pure,  and  heav'nly-minded  heart. 

Are  here  inspir'd  : — ^And  canst  thou  gaze  too  long  ? 

Nor  stands  thy  wrath  depriv'd  of  its  reproof, 
Or  unupbraided  by  this  radiant  choir. 
The  planets  of  each  system  represent 
Kind  neighbors ;  mutual  amity  prevails ; 
Sweet  interchange  of  rays,  receiv'd,  return'd ; 
Enlight'ning,  and  enlighten'd  !    All,  at  once. 
Attracting,  and  attracted  !    Patriot-like, 
None  sins  against  the  welfare  of  the  whole  ; 
But  their  reciprocal,  unselfish  aid. 
Affords  an  emblem  of  millennial  love. 


NIGHT     IX.  389 


Nothing  in  nature,  much  less  conscious  being. 
Was  e'er  created  solely  for  itself : 
Thus  man  his  sovereign  duty  learns  in  this 
Material  picture  of  benevolence. 

And  know,  of  all  our  supercilious  race. 
Thou  most  inflammable  !  thou  wasp  of  men  ! 
Man's  angry  heart,  inspected,  would  be  found 
As  rightly  set,  as  are  the  starry  spheres ; 
'Tis  nature's  structure,  broke  by  stubborn  will. 
Breeds  all  that  uncelestial  discord  there. 
Wilt  thou  not  feel  the  bias  nature  gave  ? 
Canst  thou  descend  from  converse  with  the  skies. 
And  seize  thy  brother's  throat  ? — For  what — a  clod. 
An  inch  of  earth  ?     The  planets  cry,  "  Forbear." 
They  chase  our  double  darkness ;  nature's  gloom. 
And  (kinder  still !)  our  intellectual  night. 

And  see,  day's  amiable  sister  sends 
Her  invitation,  in  the  softest  rays 
Of  mitigated  lustre ;  courts  thy  sight, 
Which  suffers  from  her  tyrant-brother's  blaze. 
Night  grants  thee  the  full  freedom  of  the  skies, 
Nor  rudely  reprimands  thy  lifted  eye ; 


390  THE     CONSOLATION. 

With  gain,  and  joy,  she  bribes  thee  to  be  wise. 
Night  opes  the  noblest  scenes,  and  sheds  an  awe, 
Which  gives  those  venerable  scenes  full  weight. 
And  deep  reception,  in  th'  intender'd  heart ; 
While  light  peeps  thro'  the  darkness,  like  a  spy ; 
And  darkness  shows  its  grandeur  by  the  light. 
Nor  is  the  profit  greater  than  the  joy, 
If  human  hearts  at  glorious  objects  glow, 
And  admiration  can  inspire  delight. 

What  speak  I  more,  than  I,  this  moment,  feel  ? 
With  pleasing  stupor  first  the  soul  is  struck 
(Stupor  ordain'd  to  make  her  truly  wise  !) 
Then  into  transport  starting  from  her  trance, 
With  love,  and  admiration,  how  she  glows ! 
This  gorgeous  apparatus  !  this  display  ! 
This  ostentation  of  creative  power  ! 
This  theatre! — what  eye  can  take  it  in? 
By  what  divine  enchantment  was  it  raised, 
For  minds  of  the  first  magnitude  to  launch 
In  endless  speculation,  and  adore  ? 
One  sun  by  day,  by  night  ten  thousand  shine ; 
And  light  us  deep  into  the  Deity, 


NIGHT     IX.  391 


How  boundless  in  magnificence  and  might  ? 

0  what  a  confluence  of  ethereal  fires, 

From  urns  unnumber'd,  down  the  steep  of  heaven, 

Streams  to  a  point,  and  centres  in  my  sight ! 

Nor  tarries  there  ;  I  feel  it  at  my  heart. 

My  heart,  at  once,  it  humbles,  and  exalts ; 

Lays  it  in  dust,  and  calls  it  to  the  skies. 

Who  sees  it,  unexalted,  and  unaw'd  ? 

Who  sees  it,  and  can  stop  at  what  is  seen  ? 

Material  ojBFspring  of  Omnipotence  ! 

Inanimate,  all-animating  birth  ! 

W^ork  worthy  him  who  made  it  ?  worthy  praise  ! 

All  praise  !  praise  more  than  human !  nor  denied 

Thy  praise  divine ! — But  tho'  man,  drown'd  in  sleep, 

Withholds  his  homage,  not  alone  I  wake ; 

Bright  legions  swarm  unseen,  and  sing,  unheard 

By  mortal  ear,  the  glorious  architect. 

In  this  his  universal  temple,  hung 

With  lustres,  with  innumerable  lights. 

That  shed  religion  on  the  soul ;  at  once, 

The  temple,  and  the  preacher  !     0  how  loud 

It  calls  devotion  !  genuine  growth  of  night ! 


392  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Devotion  !  daughter  of  astronomy  ! 
An  undevout  astronomer  is  mad. 
True ;  all  things  speak  a  God ;  but  in  the  small, 
Men  trace  out  him ;  in  great,  he  seizes  man. 
Seizes,  and  elevates,  and  wraps,  and  fills 
With  new  inquiries,  'mid  associates  new. 
Tell  me,  ye  stars  !  ye  planets  !  tell  me,  all 
Ye  starr'd,  and  planeted,  inhabitants !  what  is  it  ? 
What  are  these  sons  of  wonder  ?  say,  proud  arch  ! 
(Within  whose  azure  palaces  they  dwell) 
Built  with  divine  ambition !  in  disdain 
Of  limit  built !  built  in  the  taste  of  heaven  ! 
Vast  concave  !  ample  dome  !  wast  thou  design'd 
A  meet  apartment  for  the  Deity  ? — 
Not  so ;  that  thought  alone  thy  state  impairs, 
Thy  lofty  sinks,  and  shallows  thy  profound. 
And  straightens  thy  diffusive  ;  dwarfs  the  whole, 
And  makes  an  universe  an  orrery. 

But  when  I  drop  mine  eye,  and  look  on  man. 
Thy  right  regain'd,  thy  grandeur  is  restored, 
0  nature !  wide  flies  off  th'  expanding  round. 
As  when  whole  magazines,  at  once,  are  fir'd 


NIGHT     IX  .  393 


The  smitten  air  is  hollow'd  by  the  blow  ; 
The  vast  displosion  dissipates  the  clouds ; 
Shock'd  aether's  billows  dash  the  distant  skies  ; 
Thus  (but  far  more)  th'  expanding  round  flies  oflF, 
And  leaves  a  mighty  void,  a  spacious  womb. 
Might  teem  with  new  creation ;  reinflam'd 
Thy  luminaries  triumph,  and  assume 
Divinity  themselves.     Nor  was  it  strange, 
Matter  high-wrought  to  such  surprising  pomp. 
Such  godlike  glory,  stole  the  style  of  gods. 
From  ages  dark,  obtuse,  and  steep'd  in  sense ; 
For,  sure,  to  sense,  they  truly  are  divine. 
And  half-absolv'd  idolatry  from  guilt ; 
Nay,  turn'd  it  into  virtue.     Such  it  was 
In  those,  who  put  forth  all  they  had  of  man 
Unlost,  to  lift  their  thought,  nor  mounted  higher ; 
But,  weak  of  wing,  on  planets  percK'd;  and  thought 
What  was  their  highest,  mur^-  be  their  ador'd. 

But  they  how  weak,  who  could  no  higher  mount  ? 
And  are  there,  then,  Lorenzo !  those,  to  whom 
Unseen,  and  unexistent,  are  the  same  ? 
And  if  incomprehensible  is  join'd, 


17' 


394  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Who  dare  pronounce  it  madness,  to  believe  ? 

Why  has  the  mighty  Builder  thrown  aside 

All  measure  in  his  work ;  stretch'd  out  his  line 

So  far,  and  spread  amazement  o'er  the  whole  ? 

Then  (as  he  took  delight  in  wide  extremes), 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  his  universe, 

Dropp'd  down  that  reasoning  mite,  that  insect,  man, 

To  crawl,  and  gaze,  and  wonder  at  the  scene  ? — 

That  man  might  ne'er  presume  to  plead  amazement 

For  disbelief  of  wonders  in  himself. 

Shall  God  be  less  miraculous,  than  what 

His  hand  has  form'd  ?  shall  mysteries  descend 

From  unmysterious  ?  things  more  elevate 

Be  more  familiar  ?  uncreated  lie 

More  obvious  than  created,  to  the  grasp 

Of  human  thought  ?  the  more  of  wonderful 

Is  heard  in  him,  the  more  we  should  assent. 

Could  we  conceive  him,  God  he  could  not  be ; 

Or  he  not  God,  or  we  could  not  be  men. 

A  God  alone  can  comprehend  a  God ; 

Man's  distance  how  immense !     On  such  a  theme. 

Know  this,  Lorenzo !  (seem  it  ne'er  so  strange) 


NIGHT     IX.  395 


Nothing  can  satisfy,  but  what  confounds ; 
Nothing,  but  what  astonishes,  is  true. 
The  scene  thou  seest  attests  the  truth  I  sing, 
And  ev'ry  star  sheds  hght  upon  thy  creed. 
These  stars,  this  furniture,  this  cost  of  heaven. 
If  but  reported,  thou  hadst  ne'er  behev'd ; 
But  thine  eye  tells  thee,  the  romance  is  true. 
The  grand  of  nature  is  th'  Almighty's  oath. 
In  reason's  court,  to  silence  unbelief. 

How  my  mind,  op'ning  at  this  scene,  imbibes 
The  moral  emanations  of  the  skies, 
While  nought,  perhaps,  Lorenzo  less  admires  ! 
Has  the  great  Sov'reign  sent  ten  thousand  worlds 
To  tell  us,  he  resides  above  them  all. 
In  glory's  unapproachable  recess  ? 
And  dare  earth's  bold  inhabitants  deny 
The  sumptuous,  the  magnific  embassy 
A  moment's  audience  ?  turn  we,  nor  will  hear 
From  whom  they  come,  or  what  they  would  impart 
For  man's  emolument ;  sole  cause  that  stoops 
Their  grandeur  to  man's  eye  ?     Lorenzo  !  rouse  ; 
Let  thought,  awaken'd,  take  the  lightning's  wing. 


396  THE     CONSOLATION. 

And  glance  from  east  to  west,  from  pole  to  pole. 

Who  sees,  but  is  confounded,  or  convinc'd  ? 

Renounces  reason,  or  a  God  adores  ? 

Mankind  was  sent  into  the  world  to  see ! 

Sight  gives  the  science  needful  to  their  peace ; 

That  obvious  science  asks  small  learning's  aid. 

Wouldst  thou  on  metaphysic  pinions  soar  ? 

Or  wound  thy  patience  amid  logic  thorns  ? 

Or  travel  history's  enormous  round  ? 

Nature  no  such  hard  task  enjoins  :  she  gave 

A  make  to  man  directive  of  his  thought ; 

A  make  set  upright,  pointing  to  the  stars. 

As  who  should  say,  "  Read  thy  chief  lesson  there." 

Too  late  to  read  this  manuscript  of  heav'n, 

When,  hke  a  parchment-scroll,  shrunk  up  by  flames, 

It  folds  Lorenzo's  lesson  from  his  sight. 

Lesson  how  radiant !  not  the  God  alone, 
I  see  his  ministers  ;  I  see,  diffus'd 
In  various  orders,  essences  sublime. 
Of  radiant  offices,  of  various  plume, 
In  heav'nly  liveries,  distinctly,  clad, 
Azure,  green,  purple,  pearl,  or  downy  gold. 


NIGHT     IX.  397 


Or  all  commix'd ;  they  stand,  with  wings  outspread, 

List'ning  to  catch  the  Master's  least  command, 

And  fly  thro'  nature  ere  the  moment  ends ; 

Numbers  innumerable ! — Well  conceiv'd 

By  pagan,  and  by  Christian !     O'er  each  sphere 

Presides  an  angel,  to  direct  its  course, 

And  feed,  or  fan,  its  flames  ;  or  to  discharge 

Other  high  trust  unknown.     For  who  can  see 

Such  pomp  of  matter,  and  imagine,  mind. 

For  which  alone  inanimate  was  made. 

More  sparingly  dispens'd  ?     That  nobler  son. 

Far  liker  the  great  Sire ! — 'Tis  thus  the  skies 

Infoim  us  of  superiors  numberless. 

As  much,  in  excellence,  above  mankind, 

As  above  earth,  in  magnitude,  the  spheres. 

These,  as  a  cloud  of  witnesses,  hans^  o'er  us : 

In  a  throng'd  theatre  are  all  our  deeds ; 

Perhaps,  a  thousand  demigods  descend 

On  every  beam  we  see,  to  walk  with  men. 

Awful  reflection  !     Strongr  restraint  from  ill ! 

Yet,  here,  our  virtue  finds  still  stronger  aid 
From  these  ethereal  glories  sense  surveys. 


]       398  THE      CONSOLATION. 

-I 




Something  like  magic  strikes  from  tliis  blue  vault ; 

With  just  attention  is  it  view'd  ?     We  feel 

A  sudden  succor,  uniraplor'd,  unthought ; 

Nature  herself  does  half  the  work  of  man. 

Seas,  rivers,  mountains,  forests,  deserts,  rocks. 

The  promontory's  height,  the  depth  profound, 

Of  subterranean,  excavated  grots, 

Black-brow'd,  and  vaulted  high,  and  yawning  wide 

From  nature's  structure,  or  the  scoop  of  time ; 

If  ample  of  dimension,  vast  of  size, 

Ev'n  these  an  aggrandizing  impulse  give ; 

Of  solemn  thought  enthusiastic  heights 

Ev'n  these  infuse. — But  what  of  vast  in  these  ? 

Nothing  : — or  we  must  own  the  skies  forgot. 

Much  less  in  art. — Vain  art !     Thou  pigmy  power  ! 

How  dost  thou  swell,  and  strut,  with  human  pride, 

To  show  thy  littleness  !     What  childish  toys. 

Thy  wat'ry  columns  squirted  to  the  clouds ! 

Thy  basin'd  rivers,  and  imprison'd  seas ! 

Thy  mountains  moulded  into  forms  of  men  ! 

Thy  hundred- gated  capitals  !  or  those 

Wl:f.r3  three  days'  travel  left  us  much  to  ride ; 


NIGHT     IX.  399 


Gazing  on  miracles  by  mortals  wrought, 

c-.rMits  inumphal,  theatres  immense, 

:'>r  a;:^dmg  gardens  pendent  in  mid-air ! 

Or  temp.es  proud  to  meet  their  gods  half  way ! 

Yes':  these  affect  us  in  no  common  kind. 

'Vhai  then  the  force  of  such  superior  scenes  ? 

Enter  a  temple,  it  will  strike  an  awe  : 

What  awe  from  this  the  Deity  has  built  ? 

A  good  man  seen,  tho'  silent,  counsel  gives : 

The  touch'd  spectator  wishes  to  be  wise : 

In  a  bright  mirror  his  own  hands  have  made. 

Here  we  see  something  like  the  face  of  God. 

Seems  it  not  then  enough,  to  say,  Lorenzo  ! 

To  man  abandon'd,  "  Hast  thou  seen  the  skies '?'' 

And  yet,  so  thwarted  nature's  kind  design 
By  darmg  man,  he  makes  her  sacred  awe 
(That  guard  from  ill)  his  shelter,  his  temptation 
To  more  than  common  guilt,  and  quite  inverts 
Ce.estia.  art's  intent.     The  trembling  stars 
Bee  cnmes  gigantic,  stalking  thro'  the  gloom 
VV"':.:  front  erect,  that  hide  their  head  by  day» 
i^T:^  siaKing  night  still  darker  by  their  deeds. 


400  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Slumb'ring  in  covert,  till  the  shades  descend, 

Rapine,  and  murder,  link'd,  now  prowl  for  prey. 

The  miser  earths  his  treasure  ;  and  the  thief. 

Watching  the  mole,  half  beggars  him  ere  morn, 

Now  plots,  and  foul  conspiracies,  awake  ; 

And,  muffling  up  their  horrors  from  the  moon, 

Havoc  and  devastation  they  prepare, 

And  kingdoms  tott'ring  in  the  field  of  blood. 

Now  sons  of  riot  in  mid-revel  rage. 

What  shall  I  do  ? — suppress  it  ?  or  proclaim  ? — 

Why  sleeps  the  thunder  ?     Now,  Lorenzo !  now. 

His  best  friend's  couch  the  rank  adulterer 

Ascends  secure  ;  and  laughs  at  gods  and  men. 

Prepost'rous  madmen,  void  of  fear  or  shame, 

Lay  their  crimes  bare  to  these  chaste  eyes  of  heaven ; 

Yet  shrink,  and  shudder  at  a  mortal's  sight. 

Were  moon  and  stars,  for  villains  only  made  ? 

To  guide,  yet  screen  them,  with  tenebrious  light  ?• 

No ;  they  were  made  to  fashion  the  subhme 

Of  human  hearts,  and  wiser  make  the  wise. 

Those  ends  were  answer'd  once  ;  when  mortals  hv'd 
Of  stronger  wing,  of  Aquiline  ascent 


NIGHT     IX.  401 


In  theory  sublime.     0  how  unlike  « 

Those  vermin  of  the  night,  this  moment  sung. 
Who  crawl  on  earth,  and  on  her  venom  feed ! 
Those  ancient  sages,  human  stars  !     They  met 
Their  brothers  of  the  skies,  at  midnight  hour  : 
Their  counsel  ask'd ;  and,  what  they  ask'd,  obey'd. 
The  Stagyrite,  and  Plato,  he  who  drank 
The  poison  bowl,  and  he  of  Tusculum, 
With  him  of  Corduba,  (immortal  names !) 
In  these  unbounded,  and  Elysian,  walks. 
An  area,  fit  for  gods,  and  godlike  men. 
They  took  their  nightly  round,  thro'  radiant  paths 
By  seraphs  trod  ;  instructed,  chiefly,  thus. 
To  tread  in  their  bright  footsteps  here  below  ; 
To  walk  in  worth  still  brighter  than  the  skies. 
There,  they  contracted  their  contempt  of  earth  ; 
Of  hopes  eternal  kindled,  there,  the  fire  ; 
There,  as  in  near  approach,  they  glow'd,  and  grew 
(Great  visitants  !)  more  intimate  with  God, 
More  worth  to  men,  more  joyous  to  themselves. 
Thro*  various  virtues,  they,  with  ardor,  ran 
The  zodiac  of  their  learn'd,  illustrious  lives. 


402  THE     CONSOLATION. 

In  Christian  hearts,  0  for  a  pagan  zeal ! 
A  needful,  but  opprobrious  pray'r !     As  much 
Our  ardor  less,  as  greater  is  our  light. 
How  monstrous  this  in  morals  !     Scarce  more  strange 
Would  this  phenomenon  in  nature  strike, 
A  sun  that  froze  us,  or  a  star  that  warm'd. 

What  taught  these  heroes  of  the  moral  world  ? 
To  these  thou  giv'st  thy  praise,  give  credit  too. 
These  doctors  ne'er  were  pension'd  to  deceive  thee ; 
And  pagan  tutors  are  thy  taste. — They  taught. 
That,  narrow  views  betray  to  misery : 
That,  wise  it  is  to  comprehend  the  whole : 
That,  virtue  rose  from  nature,  ponder'd  well, 
The  single  base  of  virtue  built  to  heaven  : 
That,  God,  and  nature,  our  attention  claim : 
That,  nature  is  the  glass  reflecting  God, 
As,  by  the  sea,  reflected  is  the  sun, 
Too  glorious  to  be  gazed  on  in  his  sphere  : 
That,  mind  immortal,  loves  immortal  aims  : 
That,  boundless  mind  aff'ects  a  boundless  space : 
That,  vast  surveys,  and  the  sublime  of  things, 
The  soul  asbimilate,  and  make  her  erreat : 


NIGHT     IX.  403 


That,  therefore,  heav'n  her  glories,  as  a  fund 

Of  inspiration,  thus  spreads  out  to  man. 

Such  are  their  doctrines  ;  such  the  night  inspir'd 

And  what  more  true  ?   What  truth  of  greater  weight  ? 
The  soul  of  man  was  made  to  walk  the  skies  ; 
Delightful  outlet  of  her  prison  here  ! 
There,  disincumber'd  from  her  chains,  the  ties 
Of  toys  terrestrial,  she  can  rove  at  large  ; 
There,  freely  can  respire,  dilate,  extend. 
In  full  proportion  let  loose  all  her  powers ; 
And,  undeluded,  grasp  at  something  great. 
Nor,  as  a  stranger,  does  she  wander  there  ; 
But,  wonderful  herself,  thro'  wonder  strays  ; 
Contemplating  their  grandeur,  finds  her  own  ; 
Dives  deep  in  their  economy  divine. 
Sits  high  in  judgment  on  their  various  laws. 
And,  like  a  master,  judges  not  amiss. 
Hence,  greatly  pleas'd,  and  justly  proud,  the  soul 
Grows  conscious  of  her  birth  celestial ;  breathes 
More  Ufo,  more  vigor,  in  her  native  air  ; 
And  feels  herself  at  home  among  the  stars  ; 
And,  feeling,  emulates  her  country's  praise. 


404  THE     CONSOLATION. 

What  call  we,  then,  the  firmament,  Lorenzo  ? — 
As  earth  the  body,  since,  the  skies  sustain 
The  soul  with  food,  that  gives  immortal  life. 
Call  it,  the  noble  pasture  of  the  mind  ; 
Which  there  expatiates,  strengthens,  and  exults. 
And  riots  thro'  the  luxuries  of  thought. 
Call  it,  the  garden  of  the  Deity, 
Blossom'd  with  stars,  redundant  in  the  growth 
Of  fruit  ambrosial ;  moral  fruit  to  man. 
Call  it,  the  breast-plate  of  the  true  high-priest, 
Ardent  with  gems  oracular,  that  give. 
In  points  of  highest  moment,  right  response ; 
And  ill-neglected,  if  we  prize  our  peace. 

Thus,  have  we  found  a  true  astrology  ; 
Thus  have  we  found  a  new,  and  noble  sense. 
In  which  alone  stars  govern  human  fates. 
0  that  the  stars  (as  some  have  feign'd)  let  fall 
Bloodshed,  and  havoc,  on  embattled  realms. 
And  rescu'd  monarchs  from  so  black  a  guilt ! 
Bourbon  !  this  wish  ho\v  gen'rous  in  a  foe  ! 
Wouldst  thou  be  great,  wouldst  thou  become  a  god, 
And  stick  thy  deathless  name  among  the  stars, 


NIGHT     IX.  405 


For  mighty  conquests  on  a  needle's  point  ? 
Instead  of  forging  chains  for  foreigners, 
Bastile  thy  tutor  :  grandeur  all  thy  aim  ? 
As  yet  thou  know'st  not  what  it  is  :  how  great. 
How  glorious,  then,  appears  the  mind  of  man. 
When  in  it  all  the  stars,  and  planets,  roll ! 
And  what  it  seems,  it  is  :  great  objects  make 
Great  minds,  enlarging  as  their  views  enlarge ; 
Those  still  more  godhke,  as  these  more  divine. 
And  more  divine  than  these,  thou  canst  not  see. 
Dazzled,  o'erpower'd  with  the  delicious  draught 
Of  miscellaneous  splendors,  how  I  reel 
From  thought  to  thought  inebriate  without  end  ! 
An  Eden,  this  !  a  Paradise  unlost ! 
I  meet  the  Deity  in  ev'ry  view, 
And  tremble  at  my  nakedness  before  Him  ! 
0  that  I  could  but  reach  the  tree  of  life  ! 
For  here  it  grows  unguarded  from  our  taste ; 
No  flaming  sword  denies  our  entrance  here  ; 
Would  man  but  gather,  he  might  live  forever. 

Lorenzo  !  much  of  moral  hast  thou  seen. 
Of  curious  arts  art  thou  more  fond  ?     Then  mark 


40C  THE     CONSOLATION. 

The  mathematic  glories  of  the  skies, 

In  number,  weight,  and  measure,  all  ordain'd. 

Lorenzo's  boasted  builders,  chance,  and  fate. 

Are  left  to  finish  his  aerial  towers ; 

Wisdom,  and  choice,  their  well-known  characters 

Here  deep  impress  ;  and  claim  it  for  their  own. 

Tho'  splendid  all,  no  splendor  void  of  use ; 

Use  rivals  beauty  ;  art  contends  with  power  ; 

No  wanton  waste,  amid  effuse  expense  ; 

The  great  Economist  adjusting  all 

To  prudent  pomp,  magnificently  wise. 

How  rich  the  prospect !  and  forever  new  ! 

And  newest  to  the  man  that  views  it  most ; 

For  newer  still  in  infinite  succeeds. 

Then,  these  aerial  racers,  0  how  swift ! 

How  the  shaft  loiters  from  the  strongest  string  ! 

Spirit  alone  can  distance  the  career. 

Orb  above  orb  ascending  without  end  ! 

Circle  in  circle,  without  end,  inclos'd  ! 

Wheel  within  wheel ;  Ezekiel !  like  to  thine  ! 

Like  thine,  it  seems  a  vision,  or  a  dream ; 

Tho'  seen,  we  labor  to  beheve  it  true  ! 


NIGHT     IX.  407 


What  involution  !     What  extent !     What  swarms 
Of  worlds,  that  laugh  at  earth  !  immensely  great, 
Immensely  distant  from  each  other's  spheres  ! 
What,  then,  the  wondrous  space  through  which  they 

roll? 
At  once  it  quite  ingulphs  all  human  thought ; 
'Tis  comprehension's  absolute  defeat, 

Nor  think  thou  seest  a  wild  disorder  here ; 
Thro'  this  illustrious  chaos  to  the  sight, 
Arrangement  neat,  and  chastest  order,  reign. 
The  path  prescrib'd,  inviolably  kept. 
Upbraids  the  lawless  sallies  of  mankind. 
Worlds,  ever  thwarting,  never  interfere  ; 
What  knots  are  tied !    How  soon  are  they  dissolv'd, 
And  set  the  seeming  married  planets  free ! 
They  rove  forever,  without  error  rove ; 
Confusion  unconfus'd  !  nor  less  admire 
This  tumult  untumultuous  ;  all  on  wing ! 
In  motion,  all !   yet  what  profound  repose ! 
What  fervid  action,  yet  no  noise !  as  aw'd 
To  silence,  by  the  presence  of  their  Lord  ; 
Or  hush'd  by  His  command,  in  love  to  man. 


408  THE     CONSOLATION. 

And  bid  let  fall  soft  beams  on  human  rest, 
Restless  themselves.     On  yon  cserulean  pkin, 
In  exultation  to  their  God,  and  thine, 
They  dance,  they  sing  eternal  jubilee. 
Eternal  celebration  of  His  praise. 
But,  since  their  song  arrives  not  at  our  ear. 
Their  dance  perplex'd  exhibits  to  the  sight 
Fair  hieroglyphic  of  His  peerless  power. 
Mark  how  the  labyrinthian  turns  they  take, 
The  circles  intricate,  and  mystic  maze, 
Weave  the  grand  cypher  of  Omnipotence ; 
To  gods,  how  great !  how  legible  to  man  ! 

Leaves  so  much  wonder  greater  wonder  still  ? 
Where  are  the  pillars  that  support  the  skies  ? 
What  more  than  Atlantean  shoulder  props 
Th'  incumbent  load  ?     What  magic,  what  strange  art. 
In  fluid  air  these  pond'rous  orbs  sustains  ? 
Who  would  not  think  them  hung  in  golden  chains  ? — 
And  so  they  are  ;  in  the  high  will  of  Heaven, 
Which  fixes  all ;  makes  adamant  of  air. 
Or  air  of  adamant ;  makes  all  of  nought. 
Or  nouo-ht  of  all ;  if  such  the  dread  decree. 


NIGHT     IX.  409 


Imagine  from  their  deep  foundations  torn 
The  most  gigantic  sons  of  earth,  the  broad 
And  tow 'ring  Alps,  all  tost  into  the  sea ; 
And,  light  as  down,  or  volatile  as  air ; 
Their  bulks  enormous  dancing  on  the  waves, 
In  time,  and  measure,  exquisite ;  while  all 
The  winds,  in  emulation  of  the  spheres. 
Tune  their  sonorous  instruments  aloft ; 
The  concert  swell,  and  animate  the  ball. 
Would  this  appear  amazing  ?     What,  then,  worlds, 
In  a  far  thinner  element  sustain'd. 
And  acting  the  same  part,  with  greater  skill. 
More  rapid  movement,  and  for  nobler  ends  ? 

More  obvious  ends  to  pass,  are  not  these  stars 
The  seats  majestic,  proud  imperial  thrones. 
On  which  angelic  deleorates  of  heaven. 
At  certain  periods,  as  the  sov'reign  nods. 
Discharge  high  trusts  of  vengeance,  or  of  love ; 
To  clothe,  in  outward  grandeur,  grand  design. 
And  acts  most  solemn  still  more  solemnize  ? 

Ye  citizens  of  air  !  what  ardent  thanks, 
I     What  full  effusion  of  the  grateful  heart. 


410  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Is  due  from  man  indulg'd  in  such  a  sight ! 

A  sight  so  noble !  and  a  sight  so  kind  ! 

It  drops  new  truths  at  ev'ry  new  survey ! 

Feels  not  Lorenzo  something  stir  within, 

That  sweeps  away  all  period  ?    As  these  spheres 

Measure  duration,  they  no  less  inspire 

The  godlike  hope  of  ages  without  end. 

The  boundless  space,  thro'  which  these  rovers  take 

Their  restless  roam,  suggests  the  sister  thought 

Of  boundless  time.     Thus,  by  kind  nature's  skill, 

To  man  unlabor'd,  that  important  guest. 

Eternity,  finds  entrance  at  the  sight ; 

And  an  eternity,  for  man  ordain'd. 

Or  these  his  destin'd  midnight  counsellors, 

The  stars,  had  never  whisper'd  it  to  man. 

Nature  informs,  but  ne'er  insults,  her  sons. 

Could  she  then  kindle  the  most  ardent  wish 

To  disappoint  it  ? — That  is  blasphemy. 

Thus  of  thy  creed  a  second  article, 

Momentous,  as  tli'  existence  of  a  God, 

Is  found  (as  I  conceive)  where  rarely  sought ; 

And  thou  mayst  read  thy  soul  immortal,  here. 


NIGHT     IX.  411 


Here,  then,  Lorenzo  !  on  these  glories  dwell ; 
Nor  want  the  gilt,  illuminated  roof, 
That  calls  the  wretched  gay  to  dark  delights. 
Assemblies  ? — This  is  one  divinely  bright ; 
Here,  unendanger'd  in  health,  wealth,  or  fame, 
Range  thro'  the  fairest,  and  the  sultan  scorn. 
He,  wise  as  thou,  no  crescent  holds  so  fair. 
As  that,  which  on  his  turban  awes  a  world  ; 
And  thinks  the  moon  is  proud  to  copy  Him. 
Look  on  her,  and  gain  more  than  worlds  can  give, 
A  mind  superior  to  the  charms  of  power. 
Thou  muffled  in  delusions  of  this  life  ! 
Can  yonder  moon  turn  ocean  in  his  bed. 
From  side  to  side,  in  constant  ebb,  and  flow,     * 
And  purify  from  stench  his  wat'ry  realms  ? 
And  fails  her  moral  influence  ?     Wants  she  power 
To  turn  Lorenzo's  stubborn  tide  of  thought 
From  stagnating  on  earth's  infected  shore. 
And  purge  from  nuisance  his  corrupted  heart  ? 
Fails  her  attraction  when  it  draws  to  heaven  ? 
Nay,  and  to  what  thou  valu'st  more,  earth's  joy  ? 
Minds  elevate,  and  panting  for  unseen, 


412  THE     CONSOLATION. 

And  defecate  from  sense,  alone  obtain 

Full  relish  of  existence  undeflower'd, 

The  life  of  life,  the  zest  of  worldly  bliss. 

All  else  on  earth  amounts — to  what  ?     To  this 

"  Bad  to  be  suffer'd  :  Blessings  to  be  left :" 

Earth's  richest  inventory  boasts  no  more. 

Of  higher  scenes  be,  then,  the  call  obey'd. 
0  let  me  gaze  ! — of  gazing  there  's  no  end. 
0  let  me  think  !  thought  too  is  wilder'd  here ; 
In  midway  flight  imagination  tires ; 
Yet  soon  reprunes  her  wing  to  soar  anew, 
Her  point  unable  to  forbear,  or  gain ; 
So  great  the  pleasure,  so  profound  the  plan ! 
A  banquet,  this,  where  men,  and  angels,  meet, 
Eat  the  same  manna,  mingle  earth,  and  heaven. 
How  distant  some  of  these  nocturnal  suns  ! 
So  distant  (says  the  sage),  'twere  not  absurd 
To  doubt,  if  beams,  set  out  at  nature's  birth. 
Are  yet  arriv'd  at  this  so  foreign  world ; 
*Tho'  nothing  half  so  rapid  as  their  flight. 
An  eye  of  awe  and  wonder  let  me  roll. 
And  roll  forever  ;  who  can  satiate  sight 


NIGHT     IX.  413 


In  such  a  scene  ?  in  such  an  ocean  wide 

Of  deep  astonishment  ?  where  depth,  height,  breadth, 

Are  lost  in  their  extremes  ;  and  where  to  count 

The  thick-sown  glories  in  this  field  of  fire. 

Perhaps  a  seraph's  computation  fails. 

Now,  go,  ambition !   boast  thy  boundless  might 

In  conquest,  o'er  the  tenth  part  of  a  grain. 

And  yet  Lorenzo  calls  for  miracles, 
To  give  his  tott'ring  faith  a  sohd  base. 
Why  call  for  less  than  is  already  thine  ? 
Thou  art  no  novice  in  theology : 
What  is  a  miracle  ? — 'Tis  a  reproach, 
'Tis  an  implicit  satire,  on  mankind ; 
And  while  it  satisfies,  it  censures  too. 
To  common  sense,  great  nature's  course  proclaims 
A  deity  ;   when  mankind  falls  asleep, 
A  miracle  is  sent,  as  an  alarm. 
To  wake  the  world,  and  prove  Him  o'er  again. 
By  recent  argument,  but  not  more  strong. 
Say,  which  imports  more  plentitude  of  power, 
Or  Nature's  laws  to  fix,  or  to  repeal  ? 
To  make  a  sun,  or  stop  his  mid  career  ? 


414  THE     CONSOLATION. 

To  countermand  liis  orders,  and  send  back 

The  flaming  courier  to  the  frighted  east, 

Warm'd,  and  astonish'd,  at  his  ev'ning  ray  ? 

Or  bid  the  moon,  as  with  her  journey  tir'd, 

In  Ajalon's  soft,  flow'ry  vale  repose  ? 

Great  things  are  these ;  still  greater,  to  create. 

From  Adam's  bow'r  look  down  thro'  the  whole  train 

Of  miracles  ; — restless  is  their  power  ? 

They  do  not,  can  not,  more  amaze  the  mind, 

Than  this,  call'd  unmiraculous  survey. 

If  duly  weigh'd,  if  rationally  seen, 

If  seen  with  human  eyes.     The  brute,  indeed, 

Sees  nought  but  spangles  here  ;  the  fool,  no  more. 

Say'st  thou,  "  The  course  of  nature  governs  all"  ? 

The  course  of  nature  is  the  art  of  God. 

The  miracles  thou  call'st  for,  this  attest ; 

For  say,  could  nature  nature's  course  control  ? 
But,  miracles  apart,  who  sees  Him  not. 

Nature's  Controller,  Author,  Guide,  and  End  ? 

Who  turns  his  eye  on  nature's  midnight  face, 

But  must  inquire — "  What  hand  behind  the  scene. 

What  arm  almighty,  put  these  wheeling  globes 


NIGHT     IX.  415 


In  motion,  and  wound  up  the  vast  machine  ? 

Who  rounded  in  his  palm  these  spacious  orbs  ? 

Who  bowl'd  them  flaming  thro'  the  dark  profound, 

Num'rous  as  ghtt'ring  gems  of  morning  dew, 

Or  sparks  from  populous  cities  in  a  blaze. 

And  set  the  bosom  of  old  night  on  fire  ? 

Peopled  her  desert,  and  made  horror  smile  ?" 

Or,  if  the  mihtary  style  delights  thee, 

(For  stars  have  fought  their  battles,  leagued  with  man) 

"  Who  marshals  this  bright  host  ?  Enrolls  their  names  ? 

Appoints  their  posts,  their  marches,  and  returns, 

Punctual,  at  stated  periods  ?     Who  disbands 

These  vet'ran  troops,  their  final  duty  done, 

If  e'er  disbanded  ?" — He,  whose  potent  word. 

Like  the  loud  trumpet,  levy'd  first  their  powers 

In  night's  inglorious  empire,  where  they  slept 

In  beds  of  darkness  ;  arm'd  them  with  fierce  flames, 

Arrang'd,  and  disciplin'd,  and  cloth'd  in  gold  ; 

And  call'd  them  out  of  Chaos  to  the  field. 

Where  now  they  war  with  vice  and  unbelief. 

0  let  us  join  this  army  !     Joining  these, 

Will  give  us  heart  intrepid,  at  that  hour. 


416  THE     CONSOLATION. 

When  brighter  flames  shall  cut  a  darker  niglit ; 
When  these  strong  demonstrations  of  a  God 
Shall  hide  their  heads,  or  tumble  from  their  spheres, 
And  one  eternal  curtain  cover  all ! 

Struck  at  that  thought,  as  new  awak'd,  I  lift 
A  more  enlighten'd  eye,  and  read  the  stars 
To  man  still  more  propitious  ;   and  their  aid 
(Tho'  guiltless  of  idolatry)  implore  ; 
Nor  longer  rob  them  of  their  noblest  name. 
0  ye  dividers  of  my  time  !     Ye  bright 
Accomptants  of  my  days,  and  months,  and  years, 
In  your  fair  calendar  distinctly  mark'd  ! 
Since  that  authentic,  radiant  register, 
Tho'  man  inspects  it  not,  stands  good  against  him ; 
Since  you,  and  years,  roll  on,  tho'  man  stands  still ; 
Teach  me  my  days  to  number,  and  apply 
My  trembling  heart  to  wisdom  ;  now  beyond 
All  shadows  of  excuse  for  fooling  on. 
Age  smooths  our  path  to  prudence  :  sweeps  aside 
The  snares,  keen  appetite,  and  passion,  spread 
To  catch  stray  souls ;  and,  woe  to  that  grey  head, 
Whose  folly  would  undo,  what  age  has  done ! 


NIGHT     IX.  417 

Aid,  then,  aid,  all  ye  stars  ! — much  rather,  Thou, 
Great  Artist  !   Thou,  whose  finger  set  aright 
This  exquisite  machine,  with  all  its  wheels, 
Tho'  intervolv'd,  exact ;  and  pointing  out 
Life's  rapid,  and  irrevocable  flight, 
With  such  an  index  fair,  as  none  can  miss, 
Who  lifts  an  eye,  nor  sleeps  till  it  is  clos'd. 
Open  mine  eye,  dread  Deity  !  to  read 
The  tacit  doctrine  of  thy  works ;  to  see 
Things  as  they  are,  unalter'd  thro'  the  glass 
Of  worldly  wishes.     Time,  eternity  ! 
('Tis  these,  mismeasur'd,  ruin  all  mankind) 
Set  them  before  me ;  let  me  lay  them  both 
In  equal  scale,  and  learn  their  various  weight. 
Let  time  appear  a  moment,  as  it  is ; 
And  let  eternity's  full  orb,  at  once, 
Turn  on  my  soul,  and  strike  it  into  Heaven. 
When  shall  I  see  far  more  than  charms  me  now  ? 
Gaze  on  creation's  model  in  thy  breast 
Unveil'd,  nor  wonder  at  the  transcript  more  ? 
When,  this  vile,  foreign  dust,  which  smothers  all 
That  travel  earth's  deep  vale,  shall  I  shake  oflf? 


18* 


418  THE     CONSOLATION. 

When  shall  my  soul  her  incarnation  quit, 
And,  re-adopted  to  thy  blest  embrace, 
Obtain  her  apotheosis  in  Thee  ? 

Dost  think,  Lorenzo  !  this  is  wand'ring  wide  ? 
No,  'tis  directly  striking  at  the  mark ; 
To  wake  thy  dead  devotion  was  my  point  ;* 
And  how  I  bless  night's  consecrating  shades. 
Which  to  a  temple  turn  a  universe ; 
Fill  us  with  great  ideas,  full  of  Heaven, 
And  antidote  the  pestilential  earth! 
In  ev'ry  storm,  that  either  frowns,  or  falls, 
What  an  asylum  has  the  soul  in  prayer ! 
And  what  a  fane  is  this,  in  which  to  pray ! 
And  what  a  God  must  dwell  in  such  a  fane ! 
0  what  a  genius  must  inform  the  skies ! 
And  is  Lorenzo's  salamander-heart 
Cold,  and  untouch'd,  amid  these  sacred  fires  ? 
0  ye  nocturnal  sparks !  ye  glowing  embers. 
On  Heav'n's  broad  hearth  !     Who  burn,  or  burn  no 

more. 
Who  blaze,  or  die,  as  great  Jehovah's  breath 
*  Page  384. 


NIGHT     IX  419 


Or  blows  you,  or  forbears  ;  assist  my  song ; 
Pour  your  whole  influence  ;  exorcise  his  heart, 
So  long  possest ;  and  bring  him  back  to  man. 

And  is  Lorenzo  a  demurrer  still  ? 
Pride  in  thy  parts  provokes  thee  to  contest 
Truth,  which,  contested,  put  thy  parts  to  shame. 
Nor  shame  they  more  Lorenzo's  head,  than  heart ; 
A  faithless  heart,  how  despicably  small ! 
Too  strait,  aught  great,  or  gen'rous,  to  receive ! 
Fill'd  with  an  atom !  fill'd,  and  foul'd,  with  self ! 
And  self  mistaken  !  self,  that  lasts  an  hour ! 
Instincts  and  passions,  of  the  nobler  kind. 
Lie  suffocated  there  ;  or  they  alone. 
Reason  apart,  would  wake  high  hope ;  and  open, 
To  ravish'd  thought,  that  intellectual  sphere. 
Where  Order,  Wisdom,  Goodness,  Providence, 
Their  endless  miracles  of  love  display. 
And  promise  all  the  truly  great  desire. 
The  mind  that  would  be  happy,  must  be  great ; 
Great  in  its  wishes  ;  great,  in  its  surveys. 
Extended  views  a  narrow  mind  extend  ; 
Push  out  its  corrugate,  expansive  make. 


420  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Which,  ere-long,  more  than  planets  shall  embrace. 
A  man  of  compass  makes  a  man  of  worth ; 
Divine  contemplate,  and  become  divine. 

As  man  was  made  for  glory,  and  for  bliss. 
All  littleness  is  an  approach  to  woe  ; 
Open  thy  bosom,  set  thy  wishes  wide, 
And  let  in  manhood ;  let  in  happiness  ; 
Admit  the  boundless  theatre  of  thought 
From  nothing,  up  to  God  ;  which  makes  a  man. 
Take  God  from  nature,  nothing  great  is  left 
Man's  mind  is  in  a  pit,  and  nothing  sees ; 
Man's  heart  is  in  a  jakes,  and  loves  the  mire. 
Emerge  from  thy  profound  ;  erect  thine  eye  ; 
See  thy  distress  !     How  close  art  thou  besieg'd 
Besieg'd  by  nature,  the  proud  sceptic's  foe ! 
Inclos'd  by  these  innumerable  worlds. 
Sparkling  conviction  on  the  darkest  mind. 
As  in  a  golden  net  of  Providence, 
How  art  thou  caught,  sure  captive  of  belief ! 
From  this  thy  blest  captivity,  what  art. 
What  blasphemy  to  reason,  sets  thee  free ! 
Tliis  scene  is  Heav'n's  indulgent  violence : 


NIGHT     IX.  421 


Canst  thou  bear  up  against  this  tide  of  glory  ? 
What  is  earth  bosom'd  in  these  ambient  orbs, 
But,  faith  in  God  impos'd,  and  press'd  on  man  ? 
Dar'st  thou  still  litigate  thy  desp'rate  cause, 
Spite  of  these  num'rous,  awful,  witnesses, 
And  doubt  the  deposition  of  the  skies  ? 
0  how  laborious  is  thy  way  to  ruin  ! 

Laborious  ?     'Tis  impracticable  quite  ; 
To  sink  beyond  a  doubt,  in  this  debate. 
With  all  his  weight  of  wisdom,  and  of  will, 
And  crime  flagitious,  I  defy  a  fool. 
Some  wish  they  did  ;  but  no  man  disbelieves. 
God  is  a  spirit :  spirit  cannot  strike 
These  gross,  material  organs ;  God  by  man 
As  much  is  seen,  as  man  a  God  can  see, 
In  these  astonishing  exploits  of  power. 
What  order,  beauty,  motion,  distance,  size ! 
Concertion  of  design,  how  exquisite ! 
How  complicate,  in  their  divine  police ! 
A;^t  means  !  great  ends  !  consent  to  gen'ral  good  !- 
Each  attribute  of  these  material  gods. 
So  long  (and  that  with  specious  pleas)  ador'd. 


422  THE     CONSOLATION. 

A  sep'rate  conquest  gains  o'er  rebel  thought ; 
And  leads  in  triumph  the  whole  mind  of  man. 

Lorenzo  !  this  may  seem  harangue  to  thee  ; 
Such  all  is  apt  to  seem,  that  thwarts  our  will. 
And  dost  thou,  then,  demand  a  simple  proof 
Of  this  great  master-moral  of  the  skies, 
Unskill'd,  or  disinclin'd,  to  read  it  there  ? 
Since  'tis  the  basis,  and  all  drops  without  it. 
Take  it,  in  one  compact,  unbroken  chain. 
Such  proof  insists  on  an  attentive  ear  ; 
'Twill  not  make  one  amid  a  mob  of  thoughts. 
And,  for  thy  notice,  struggle  with  the  world. 

Retire  ; the  world  shut  out ; thy  thoughts  call 

home ; — 
Imagination's  airy  wing  repress  ; — 
Lock  up  thy  senses  ;  — let  no  passion  stir ; — 
Wake  all  to  reason  ; — let  her  reign  alone ; — 
Then,  in  thy  soul's  deep  silence,  and  the  depth 
Of  nature's  silence,  midnight,  thus  inquire, 
As  I  have  done  ;  and  shall  inquire  no  more. 
In  nature's  channel,  thus  the  questions  run. 

"  What  am  I  ?  and  from  whence  ? — I  nothing  know, 


NIGHT     IX.  423 


But  that  I  am ;  and,  since  I  am,  conclude 

Something  eternal.     Had  there  ere  been  nought, 

Nouofht  still  had  been :  eternal  there  must  be. — 

But  what  eternal  ? — Why  not  human  race  ? 

And  Adam's  ancestors  without  an  end  ? — 

That 's  hard  to  be  conceiv'd ;  since  ev'ry  hnk 

Of  that  long-chain'd  succession  is  so  frail ; 

Can  ev'ry  part  depend,  and  not  the  whole  ? 

Yet  grant  it  true  ;  new  difficulties  rise ; 

I  'm  still  quite  out  at  sea ;  nor  see  the  shore. 

Whence  earth,  and  these  bright  orbs  ? — ^Eternal  too  ? — 

Grant  matter  was  eternal ;  still  these  orbs 

Would  want  some  other  father ; — much  design 

Is  seen  in  all  their  motions,  all  their  makes ; 

Design  implies  intelligence,  and  art : 

That  can't  be  from  themselves — or  man.     That  art 

Man  scarce  can  comprehend,  could  man  bestow  ? 

And  nothing  greater,  yet  allow'd,  than  man. — 

Who,  motion,  foreign  to  the  smallest  grain, 

Shot  thro'  vast  masses  of  enormous  weight  ? 

Who  bid  brute  matter's  restive  lump  assume 

Such  various  forms,  and  gave  it  wings  to  fly  ? 


424  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Has  matter  innate  motion  ?     Then  each  atom. 

Asserting  its  indisputable  right 

To  dance,  would  form  a  universe  of  dust : 

Has  matter  none  ?     Then  whence  these  glorious  forms. 

And  boundless  flights,  from  shapeless,  and  repos'd  ? 

Has  matter  more  than  motion  ?  has  it  thought, 

Judgment,  and  genius  ?  is  it  deeply  learn'd 

In  mathematics  ?   has  it  fram'd  such  laws. 

Which,  but  to  guess,  a  Newton  made  immortal  ? — 

If  so,  how  each  sage  atom  laughs  at  me, 

Who  think  a  clod  inferior  to  a  man  ! 

If  art,  to  form ;  and  counsel,  to  conduct : 

And  that  with  greater  far,  than  human  skill, 

Resides  not  in  each  block : — a  Godhead  reigns. — 

Grant,  then,  invisible,  eternal  mind ; 

That  granted,  all  is  solv'd. — But,  granting  that, 

Draw  I  not  o'er  me  a  still  darker  cloud  ? 

Grant  I  not  that  which  I  can  ne'er  conceive  ? 

A  being  without  origin,  or  end  ! — 

Hail,  human  liberty !     There  is  no  God — 

Yet,  why  ?     On  either  scheme  that  knot  subsists  ; 

Subsist  it  must,  in  God,  or  human  race  ; 


I  GUT    IX.  425 


If  in  the  last,  how  many  knots  beside, 
Indissoluble  all  ? — Why  choose  it  there. 
Where,  chosen,  still  subsist  ten  thousand  more  ? 
Reject  it,  where,  that  chosen,  all  the  rest 
Dispers'd,  leave  reason's  whole  horizon  clear  ? 
This  is  not  reason's  dictate  :  reason  says. 
Close  with  the  side  where  one  grain  turns  the  scale ; 
What  vast  preponderance  is  here !     Can  reason 
With  louder  voice  exclaim — believe  a  God  ? 
And  reason  heard,  is  the  sole  mark  of  man. 
What  things  impossible  must  man  think  true, 
On  any  other  system  !     And  how  strange 
To  disbelieve,  through  mere  credulity  !" 

If,  in  this  chain,  Lorenzo  finds  no  flaw. 
Let  it  forever  bind  him  to  belief. 
And  where  the  link,  in  which  a  flaw  he  finds  ? — 
And,  if  a  God  there  is,  that  God  how  great !" 
How  great  that  pow'r  whose  providential  care 
Thro'  these  bright  orbs'  dark  centres  darts  a  ray ! 
Of  nature  universal  threads  the  whole  ! 
And  hangs  creation,  like  a  precious  gem, 
Tho'  little,  on  the  footstool  of  His  throne ! 


426  THE     CONSOLATION 

That  little  gem,  how  large  !     A  weight  let  fall 
From  a  fixt  star,  in  ages  can  it  reach 
This  distant  earth  ?     Say,  then,  Lorenzo  !  where, 
Where,  ends  this  mighty  building  ?  where,  begin 
The  suburbs  of  creation  ?  where,  the  wall 
Whose  battlements  look  o'er  into  the  vale 
Of  non-existence  ? — nothing's  strange  abode  ! 
Say,  at  what  point  of  space  Jehovah  dropp'd 
His  slacken'd  line,  and  laid  his  balance  by ; 
Weigh'd  worlds,  and  measured  infinite,  no  more  ? 
Where,  rears  His  terminating  pillar  high 
Its  extra-mundane  head  ?  and  says,  to  gods, 
In  characters  illustrious  as  the  Sun, 

I  stand,  the  plan's  proud  period ;  I  pronounce 
The  work  accoraplish'd  ;    the  creation  clos'd  : 
Shout,  all  ye  gods  ;  nor  shout,  ye  gods,  alone  ; 
Of  all  that  lives,  or,  if  devoid  of  life, 
That  rests,  or  rolls,  ye  heights,  and  depths,  resound  ! 
Resound  !  resound  !  ye  depths,  and  heights,  resound  ! 
Hard  are  those  questions  ? — answer  harder  still. 
Is  this  the  sole  exploit,  the  single  birth. 
The  sohtary  son,  of  pow'r  divine  ? 


NIGHT     IX.  427 


Or  has  th'  Almighty  Father,  with  a  breath, 
Impregnated  the  womb  of  distant  space  ? 
Has  He  not  bid,  in  various  provinces, 
Brother  creations  the  dark  bowels  burst 
Of  night  primaeval ;  barren,  now,  no  more  ? 
And  He  the  central  sun,  transpiercing  all 
Those  giant-generations,  which  disport, 
And  dance,  as  motes,  in  his  meridian  ray ; 
That  ray  withdrawn,  benighted,  or  absorb'd, 
In  that  abyss  of  horror,  whence  they  sprung  ; 
While  chaos  triumphs,  repossest  of  all 
Rival  creation  ravish'd  from  his  throne  ? 
Chaos !    of  nature  both  the  womb,  and  grave ! 

Think'st  thou,  my  scheme,  Lorenzo,  spread  too  wide  ? 
Is  this  extravagant  ? — No  ;  this  is  just ; 
Just,  in  conjecture,  tho'  'twere  false  in  fact. 
If  'tis  an  error,  'tis  an  error  sprung 
From  noble  root,  high  thought  of  the  Most  High. 
But  wherefore  error  ?    Who  can  prove  it  such  ? — 
He  that  can  set  Omnipotence  a  bound. 
Can  man  conceive  beyond  what  God  can  do  ? 
Nothing,  but  quite  impossible,  is  hard. 


428  THE     CONSOLATION 


He  summons  into  being,  with  like  ease, 

A  whole  creation,  and  a  single  grain. 

Speaks  He  the  word  ?  a  thousand  worlds  are  born ! — 

A  thousand  worlds  ?    There 's  space  for  millions  more ; 

And  in  what  space  can  his  great  fiat  fail  ? 

Condemn  me  not,  cold  critic  !  but  indulge 

The  warm  imagination.     Why  condemn  ? 

Why  not  indulge  such  thoughts,  as  swell  our  hearts 

With  fuller  admiration  of  that  power, 

Who  gives  our  hearts  with  such  high  thoughts  to  swell? 

Why  not  indulge  in  His  augmented  praise  ? 

Darts  not  His  glory  a  still  brighter  ray, 

The  less  is  left  to  chaos,  and  the  realms 

Of  hideous  night,  where  fancy  strays  aghast ! 

And,  tho'  most  talkative,  makes  no  report  ? 

Still  seems  my  thought  enormous  ?    Think  again  : — 
Experience  'self  shall  aid  thy  lame  belief. 
Glasses  (that  revelation  to  the  sight !) 
Have  they  not  led  us  deep  in  the  disclose 
Of  fine-spun  nature,  exquisitely  small ; 
And  tho'  demonstrated,  still  ill  conceived  ? 
If,  then,  on  the  reverse,  the  mind  would  mount 


NIGHT     IX.  429 


In  magnitude,  what  mind  can  mount  too  far. 
To  keep  the  balance,  and  creation  poise  1 
Defect  alone  can  err  on  such  a  theme ; 
What  is  too  great,  if  we  the  cause  survey  ? 
Stupendous  Architect !    thou,  thou  art  all ! 
My  soul  flies  up  and  down  in  thoughts  of  thee, 
And  finds  herself  but  at  the  centre  still ! 
I  AM,  thy  name !  existence,  all  thine  own  ! 
Creation  's  nothing ;  flatter'd  much,  if  styl'd 
"  The  thin,  the  fleeting  atmosphere  of  God." 

0  for  the  voice — of  what  ?  of  whom  ? — What  yoice 
Can  answer  to  my  wants,  in  such  ascent. 
As  dares  to  deem  one  universe  too  small  ? 
Tell  me,  Lorenzo  !  (for  now  fancy  glows, 
Fir'd  in  the  vortex  of  Almighty  power) 
Is  not  this  home  creation,  in  the  map 
Of  universal  nature,  as  a  speck. 
Like  fair  Britannia  in  our  Httle  ball ; 
Exceeding  fair,  and  glorious,  for  its  size. 
But,  elsewhere,  far  outmeasur'd,  far  outshone  ? 
In  fancy  (for  the  fact  beyond  us  lies) 
Canst  thou  not  figure  it,  an  isle,  almost 


430  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Too  small  for  notice,  in  the  vast  of  being ; 
Severed  by  mighty  seas  of  unbuilt  space. 
From  other  realms ;  from  ample  continents ; 
Of  higher  life,  where  nobler  natives  dwell ; 
Less  Northern,  less  remote  from  Deity, 
Glowing  beneath  the  line  of  the  Supreme ; 
Where  souls  in  excellence  make  haste,  put  forth 
Luxuriant  growths  ;  nor  the  late  autumn  wait 
Of  human  worth,  but  ripen  soon  to  gods  ? 

Yet  why  drown  fancy  in  such  depths  as  these  ? 
Return,  presumptuous  rover !  and  confess 
The  bounds  of  man ;  nor  blame  them,  as  too  small. 
Enjoy  we  not  full  scope  in  what  is  seen  ? 
Full  ample  the  dominions  of  the  sun  ! 
Full  glorious  to  behold  !     How  far,  how  wide. 
The  matchless  monarch,  from  his  flaming  throne. 
Lavish  of  lustre,  throws  his  beams  about  him, 
Farther,  and  faster,  than  a  thought  can  fly. 
And  feeds  his  planets  with  eternal  fires  ! 
This  Heliopolis,  by  greater  far. 
Than  the  proud  tyrant  of  the  Nile,  was  built ; 
And  He  alone,  who  built  it,  can  destroy. 


NIGHT     IX.  431 


Beyond  this  city,  why  strays  human  thought  ? 
One  wonderful,  enough  for  man  to  know  ! 
One  infinite,  enough  for  man  to  range  ! 
One  firmament,  enough  for  man  to  read  ! 
0  what  voluminous  instruction  here ! 
What  page  of  wisdom  is  deny'd  him  ?    None  ; 
If  learning  his  chief  lessonfmakes  him  wise. 
Nor  is  instruction  here  our  only  gain ; 
There  dwells  a  noble  pathos  in  the  skies, 
Which  warms  our  passions,  proselytes  our  hearts. 
How  eloquently  shines  the  glowing  pole ! 
With  what  authority  it  gives  its  charge. 
Demonstrating  great  truths  in  style  sublime. 
Tho'  silent,  loud  !  heard  earth  around ;  above 
The  planets  heard ;  and  not  unheard  in  hell ; 
Hell  has  her  wonder,  tho'  too  proud  to  praise. 
Is  earth,  then,  more  infernal  ?  has  she  those, 
Who  neither  praise  (Lorenzo  !)  nor  admire  ? 

Lorenzo's  admiration,  pre-engag'd, 
Ne'er  ask'd  the  moon  one  question  ;  never  ne)d 
Least  correspondence  with  a  single  star ; 
Ne'er  rear'd  an  altar  to  the  queen  of  Heaven 


432  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Walking  in  brightness ;  or  her  train  ador'd. 

Their  sublunary  rivals  have  long  since 

Engross'd  his  whole  devotion  ;  stars  malign, 

Which  made  their  fond  astronomer  run  mad ; 

Darken  his  intellect,  corrupt  his  heart ; 

Cause  him  to  sacrifice  his  fame  and  peace 

To  momentary  madness,  caM'd  dehght. 

Idolater,  more  gross  than  ever  kiss'd 

The  lifted  hand  to  Luna,  or  pour'd  out 

The  blood  to  Jove  ! — 0  Thou,  to  whom  belongs 

All  sacrifice  !    0  thou  great  Jove  unfeign'd ! 

Divine  Instructor  !  thy  first  volume,  this 

For  man's  perusal ;  all  in  capitals  ! 

In  moon,  and  stars  (Heav'n's  golden  alphabet !) 

Emblaz'd  to  seize  the  sight  ;  who  runs,  may  read  ; 

Who  reads,  can  understand.     'Tis  unconfin'd 

To  Christian  land,  or  Jewry ;  fairly  writ. 

In  language  universal,  to  mankind : 

A  language,  lofty  to  the  learn'd ;  yet  plain,. 

To  those  that  feed  the  flock,  or  guide  the  plough. 

Or,  from  its  husk,  strike  out  the  bounding  grain. 

A  language  worthy  the  Great  Mind,  that  speaks ! 


NIGHT    IX.  433 


Preface,  and  comment,  to  the  sacred  page  ! 
Which  oft  refers  its  reader  to  the  skies, 
As  pre-supposing  his  first  lesson  there. 
And  scripture-self  a  fragment,  that  unread. 
Stupendous  book  of  wisdom,  to  the  wise  ! 
Stupendous  book !  and  open'd,  night !  by  thee. 

By  thee  much  open'd,  I  confess,  0  Night ! 
Yet  more  I  wish ;  but  how  shall  I  prevail  ? 
Say,  gentle  night !  whose  modest,  maiden  beams 
Give  us  a  new  creation,  and  present 
The  world's  great  picture  soften'd  to  the  sight ; 
Nay,  kinder  far,  far  more  indulgent  still, 
Say,  thou,  whose  mild  dominion's  silver  key 
Unlocks  our  hemisphere,  and  sets  to  view 
Worlds  beyond  number  ;  worlds  conceal'd  by  day 
Behind  the  proud,  and  envious  star  of  noon ! 
Canst  thou  not  draw  a  deeper  scene  ? — and  show 
The  mighty  potentate,  to  whom  belong 
These  rich  regalia  pompously  display'd 
To  kmdle  that  high  hope  ?  like  him  of  Uz, 
I  gaze  around ;  I  search  on  ev'ry  side — 
0  for  a  glimpse  of  Him  my  soul  adores  ! 


19 


434  THE     CONSOLATION. 

As  tlie  chas'd  hart,  amid  the  desert  waste, 

Pants  for  the  Hving  stream  ;  for  Him  who  made  her, 

So  pants  the  thirsty  soul,  amid  the  blank 

Of  sublunary  joys.     Say,  goddess !  where  ? 

Where  blazes  His  bright  court?     Where  burns  His 

Throne  ? 
Thou  know'st ;  for  thou  art  near  him ;  by  thee,  round 
His  grand  pavilion,  sacred  fame  reports 
The  sable  curtains  drawn.     If  not,  can  none 
Of  thy  fair  daughter-train,  so  swift  of  wing, 
Who  travel  far,  discover  where  he  dwells  ? 
A  star  his  dwelling  pointed  out  below. 
Ye  Pleiades !  Arcturus  !  Mazeroth  ! 
And  thou,  Orion  !  of  still  keener  eye  ! 
Say,  ye,  who  guide  the  wilder'd  in  the  waves. 
And  bring  them  out  of  tempest  into  port ! 
On  which  hand  must  I  bend  my  course  to  find  Him  ? 
These  courtiers  keep  the  secret  of  their  King ; 
I  wake  whole  nights,  in  vain,  to  steal  it  from  them. 
I  wake,  and,  waking,  climb  night's  radiant  scale. 
From  sphere  to  sphere ;  the  steps  by  nature  set 
For  man's  ascent;  at  once  to  tempt,  and  aid; 


NIGHT     IX.  435 


To  tempt  his  eye,  and  aid  his  tow'ring  thought ; 
Till  it  arrives  at  the  great  goal  of  all. 

In  ardent  contemplation's  rapid  car, 
From  earth  as  from  my  barrier,  I  set  out. 
How  swift  I  mount !  diminish'd  earth  recedes : 
I  pass  the  moon  ;  and,  from  her  further  side. 
Pierce  heav'n's  blue  curtain ;  strike  into  remote  ; 
Where,  with  his  lifted  tube,  the  subtil  sage 
His  artificial,  airy  journey  takes, 
And  to  celestial  lengthens  human  sight. 
I  pause  at  ev'ry  planet  on  my  road. 
And  ask  for  Him,  who  gives  their  orbs  to  roll. 
Their  foreheads  fair  to  shine.     From  Saturn's  ring, 
In  which,  of  earths  an  army  might  be  lost, 
With  the  bold  comet,  take  my  bolder  flight, 
Amid  those  sov'reign  glories  of  the  skies. 
Of  independent,  native  lustre,  proud  ; 
The  souls  of  systems !  and  the  lords  of  life. 
Thro'  their  wide  empires  ! — what  behold  I  now  ? 
A  wilderness  of  wonders  burning  round  ; 
Where  larger  suns  inhabit  higher  spheres ; 
Perhaps  the  villas  of  descending  gods ! 


436  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Nor  halt  I  here ;  my  toil  is  but  begun ; 

'Tis  but  the  threshold  of  the  Deity ; 

Or,  far  beneath  it,  I  am  grovelling  still. 

Nor  is  it  strange  :  I  built  on  a  mistake ; 

The  grandeur  of  his  works,  whence  folly  sought 

For  aid,  to  reason  sets  his  glory  higher ; 

Who  built  thus  high  for  worms  (mere  worms  to  Him)  ; 

O  where,  Lorenzo  !  must  the  Builder  dwell  ? 

Pause,  then !  and,  for  a  moment,  here  respire — 
If  human  thought  can  keep  its  station  here. 
Where  am  I  ? — where  is  earth  ? — nay,  where  art  thou, 
0  sun  ? — Is  the  sun  turn'd  recluse  ? — and  are 
His  boasted  expeditions  short  to  mine  ? — 
To  mine,  how  short !     On  nature's  Alps  I  stand. 
And  see  a  thousand  firmaments  beneath ! 
A  thousand  systems  !  as  a  thousand  grains  ! 
So  much  a  stranger,  and  so  late  arriv'd. 
How  can  man's  curious  spirit  not  inquire, 
What  are  the  natives  of  this  world  sublime, 
Of  this  so  foreign,  unterrestrial  sphere. 
Where  mortal,  untranslated,  never  stray'd  ? 
*'  0  ye,  as  distant  from  my  little  home. 


NIGHT     IX.  437 


As  swiftest  sunbeams  in  an  age  can  fly ! 

Far  from  my  native  element  I  roam, 

In  quest  of  new,  and  wonderful,  to  man. 

What  province  this,  of  His  immense  domain. 

Whom  all  obeys  ?  or  mortals  here,  or  gods  ? 

Ye  bord'rers  on  the  coasts  of  bliss !  what  are  you  ? 

A  colony  from  heav'n  ?  or,  only  rais'd. 

By  frequent  visit  from  heav'n's  neighboring  realms. 

To  secondary  gods,  and  half  divine  ? — 

Whate'er  your  nature,  this  is  past  dispute. 

Far  other  life  you  live,  far  other  tongue 

You  talk,  far  other  thought,  perhaps,  you  think. 

Than  man.     How  various  are  the  works  of  God  ! 

But  say,  what  thought  ?     Is  reason  here  enthron'd. 

And  absolute  ?     Or  sense  in  arms  against  her  ? 

Have  you  two  lights  ?     Or  need  you  no  reveal'd  ? 

Enjoy  your  happy  realms  their  golden  age  ? 

And  had  your  Eden  an  abstemious  Eve  ? 

Our  Eve's  fair  daugliters  prove  their  pedigree. 

And  ask  their  Adams — '  Who  would  not  be  wise  ?' 

Or,  if  your  mother  fell,  are  you  redeem'd  ? 

And  if  redeem'd — is  your  Redeemer  scorn'd  ? 


438  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Is  this  your  final  residence  ?  if  not, 

Change  your  own  scene,  translated  ?  or  by  death  ? 

And  if  by  death ;  what  death  ? — ^Know  you  disease  ? 

Or  horrid  war  ? — ^With  war,  this  fatal  hour, 

Europa  groans  (so  call  we  a  small  field, 

Where  kings  run  mad).     In  our  world,  death  deputes 

Intemperance  to  do  the  work  of  age  ; 

And,  hanging  up  the  quiver  nature  gave  him, 

As  slow  of  execution,  for  dispatch 

Sends  forth  imperial  butchers ;  bids  them  slay 

Their  sheep  (the  silly  sheep  they  fleec'd  before.) 

And  toss  him  twice  ten  thousand  at  a  meal. 

Sit  all  your  executioners  on  thrones  ? 

With  you,  can  rage  for  plunder  make  a  god  ? 

And  bloodshed  wash  out  ev'ry  other  stain  ? — 

But  you,  perhaps,  can 't  bleed :  from  matter  gross 

Your  spirits  clean,  are  delicately  clad 

In  fine-spun  ether ;  privileg'd  to  soar. 

Unloaded,  uninfected  ;  how  unlike 

The  lot  of  man  !  how  few  of  human  race 

By  their  own  mud  unmurder'd  !  how  we  wage 

Self- war  eternal ! — Is  your  painful  day 


NIGHT     IX.  439 


Of  hardy  conflict  o'er  ?  or,  are  you  still 

Raw  candidates  at  school  ?  and  have  you  those 

Who  disaflfect  reversions,  as  with  us  ? — 

But  what  are  we  ?  you  never  heard  of  man. 

Or  earth ;  the  bedlam  of  the  universe  ! 

Where  reason  (undiseas'd  with  you)  runs  mad, 

And  nurses  folly's  children  as  her  own  ; 

Fond  of  the  foulest.     In  the  sacred  mount 

Of  holiness,  where  reason  is  pronounc'd 

Infallible  ;  and  thunders,  like  a  god  ; 

Ev'n  there,  by  saints,  the  demons  are  outdone ; 

What  these  think  wrong,  our  saints  refine  to  right ; 

And  kindly  teach  dull  hell  her  own  black  arts  ; 

Satan,  instructed,  o'er  their  morals  smiles.— 

But  this,  how  strange  to  you,  who  know  not  man  ! 

Has  the  least  rumor  of  our  race  arriv'd  ? 

Call'd  here  Elijah,  in  his  flaming  car  ? 

Pass'd  by  you  the  good  Enoch,  on  his  road 

To  those  fair  fields,  whence  Lucifer  was  hurl'd  ; 

Who  brush'd,  perhaps,  your  sphere,  in  his  descent, 

Stain'd  your  pure  crystal  ether,  or  let  fall 

A  short  eclipse  from  his  portentous  shade  ? 


440  THE     CONSOLATION. 

0  !  that  the  fiend  had  lodg'd  on  some  broad  orb 
Athwart  his  way  ;  nor  reach'd  his  present  home, 
Then  blacken'd  earth  with  footsteps  foul'd  in  hell, 
Nor  wash'd  in  ocean,  as  from  Rome  he  past 
To  Britain's  isle ;  too,  too,  conspicuous  there  !" 

But  this  is  all  digression :  where  is  He, 
That  o'er  Heav'n's  battlements  the  felon  hurl'd 
To  groans,  and  chains,  and  darkness  ?  where  is  He, 
Who  sees  creation's  summit  in  a  vale  ? 
He,  whom,  while  man  is  man,  he  can't  but  seek ; 
And  if  he  finds  commences  more  than  man  ? 
0  for  a  telescope  His  throne  to  reach  ! 
Tell  me,  ye  learn'd  on  earth  !  or  blest  above  ! 
Ye  searching,  ye  Newtonian  angels  !  tell, 
Where,  your  great  Master's  orb  ?  his  planets,  where  ? 
Those  conscious  statellites,  those  morning-stars, 
First -bom  of  Deity  !  from  central  love. 
By  veneration  most  profound,  thrown  off; 
By  sweet  attraction,  no  less  strongly  drawn, 
Aw'd,  and  yet  raptur'd ;  raptur'd,  yet  serene  ; 
Past  thought,  illustrious,  but  with  borrow'd  beams ; 
In  still  approaching  circles,  still  remote, 


NIGHT     IX.  441 


Revolving  round  the  sun's  eternal  sire  ? 
Or  sent  in  lines  direct,  on  embassies 
To  nations — in  what  latitude  ? — Beyond 
Terrestrial  thought's  horizon  ! — And  on  what 
High  errands  sent  ? — Here  human  effort  ends  ; 
And  leaves  me  still  a  stranger  to  His  throne. 

Full  well  it  might !  I  quite  mistook  my  road, 
Born  in  age  more  curious,  than  devout ; 
More  fond  to  fix  the  place  of  heav'n,  or  hell, 
Than  studious  this  to  shun,  or  that  secure. 
'Tis  not  the  curious,  but  the  pious  path. 
That  leads  me  to  my  point :  Lorenzo  !  know. 
Without  or  star,  or  angel,  for  their  guide, 
Who  worship  God,  shall  find  Him.     Humble  love. 
And  not  proud  reason,  keeps  the  door  of  heav'n  ; 
Love  finds  admission,  where  proud  science  fails, 
Man's  science  is  the  culture  of  his  heart ; 
And  not  to  lose  his  plumbet  in  the  depths 
Of  nature,  or  the  more  profound  of  God. 
Either  to  know,  is  an  attempt  that  sets 
The  wisest  on  a  level  with  the  fool. 
To  fathom  nature,  (ill-attempted  here  !) 


19^ 


442  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Past  doubt,  is  deep  philosophy  above  ; 
Higher  degrees  in  bliss  archangels  take, 
As  deeper  leam'd  ;  the  deepest,  learning  still. 
For,  what  a  thunder  of  -Omnipotence 
(So  might  I  dare  to  speak)  is  seen  in  all ! 
In  man  !  in  earth  !  in  more  amazing  skies  ! 
Teaching  this  lesson,  pride  is  loth  to  learn — 
"  Not  deeply  to  discern,  not  much  to  know, 
Mankind  was  born  to  wonder,  and  adore." 

And  there  is  cause  for  higher  wonder  still. 
Than  that  which  struck  us  from  our  past  surveys  ? 
Yes  ;  and  for  deeper  adoration  too. 
From  my  late  airy  travel  unconfin'd. 
Have  I  learned  nothing  ? — Yes,  Lorenzo  !     This  : 
Each  of  these  stars  is  a  religious  house ; 
I  saw  their  altars  smoke,  their  incense  rise. 
And  heard  hosannas  ring  through  every  sphere, 
A  seminary  fraught  wih  future  gods. 
Nature  all  o'er  is  consecrated  ground. 
Teeming  with  growths  immortal,  and  divine. 
The  great  Proprietor's  all-bounteous  hand 
Leaves  nothing  waste  ;  but  sows  these  fiery  fields 


NIGHT     IX.  443 


1 


With  seeds  of  reason,  which  to  virtues  rise 
Beneath  his  genial  ray ;  and,  if  escap'd 
The  pestilential  blasts  of  stubborn  will, 
When  grown  mature,  are  gather'd  for  the  skies. 
And  is  devotion  thought  too  much  on  earth, 
When  beings,  so  superior,  homage  boast, 
And  triumph  in  prostrations  to  the  throne  ? 

But  wherefore  more  of  planets,  or  of  stars  ? 
Ethereal  journeys,  and,  discovered  there, 
Ten  thousand  worlds,  ten  thousand  ways  devout  ? 
All  nature  sending  incense  to  the  throne. 
Except  the  bold  Lorenzos  of  our  sphere  ? 
Op'ning  the  solemn  sources  of  my  soul. 
Since  I  have  pour'd,  like  feign'd  Eridanus, 
My  flowing  numbers  o'er  the  flaming  skies, 
Nor  see,  of  fancy,  or  of  fact,  what  more, 
'  Invites  the  muse — here  turn  we,  and  review 
Our  past  nocturnal  landscape  wide  : — then,  say. 
Say,  then,  Lorenzo !  with  what  burst  of  heart, 
The  whole,  at  once,  revolving  in  his  thought, 
Must  man  exclaim,  adoring,  and  aghast  ? 
"  0  what  a  root !  0  what  a  branch  is  here  ! 


444  THE     CONSOLATION. 

0  what  a  Father  !  what  a  family  ! 

Worlds  !  systems !  and  creations  ! — and  creations, 

In  one  agglomerated  cluster,  hung, 

Great  Vine  !*  on  thee  ;  on  thee  the  cluster  hangs  ; 

The  filial  cluster !  infinitely  spread 

In  glowing  globes,  with  various  being  fraught ; 

And  drinks  (nectareous  draught!)  immortal  life. 

Or,  shall  I  say  (for  who  can  say  enough  ?) 

A  constellation  of  ten  thousand  gems, 

(And,  0  !  of  what  dimension !  of  what  weight !) 

Set  in  one  signet,  flames  on  the  right  hand 

Of  Majesty  divine  !  the  blazing  seal, 

That  deeply  stamps  on  all  created  mind. 

Indelible,  His  sovereign  attributes. 

Omnipotence,  and  love ;  that,  passing  bound  ; 

And  this,  surpassing  that.     Nor  stop  we  here 

For  want  of  pow'r  in  God,  but  thought  in  man. 

Even  this  acknowledg'd,  leaves  us  still  in  debt ; 

If  greater  aught,  that  greater  all  is  thine. 

Dread  Sire  ! — accept  this  miniature  of  thee ;  , 

*  John  XV.  1. 


NIGHT     IX.  445 


And  pardon  an  attempt  from  mortal  thought, 

In  which  archangels  might  have  failed,  unblamed." 

How  such  ideas  of  th'  Almighty's  pow'r. 
And  such  ideas  of  th'  Almighty's  plan,, 
(Ideas  not  absurd)  distend  the  thought 
Of  feeble  mortals  !  nor  of  them  alone  ! 
The  fulness  of  the  Deity  breaks  forth 
In  inconceivable  to  men,  and  gods. 
Think,  then  ;  0  think ;  nor  ever  drop  the  thought ; 
How  low  must  man  descend,  when  gods  adore  ! — 
Have  I  not,  then,  accomplish'd  my  proud  boast  ? 
Did  I  not  tell  thee,*  "  we  would  mount,  Lorenzo  ? 
And  kindle  our  devotion  at  the  stars  ?" 

And  have  I  fail'd  ?  and  did  I  flatter  thee  ? 
And  art  all  adamant  ?  and  dost  confute 
All  urg'd,  with  one  irrefragable  smile  ? 
Lorenzo  !  mirth  how  miserable  here  ! 
Swear  by  the  stars,  by  Him  who  made  them,  swear, 
Thy  heart,  henceforth,  shall  be  as  pure  as  they : 
Then  thou,  like  them,  shalt  shine ;  like  them,  shalt  rise 
From  low  to  lofty ;  from  obscure  to  bright ; 

*  Page  384. 


446  THE     CONSOLATION. 

By  due  gradation,  Nature's  sacred  law. 

The  stars,  from  whence  ? — ask  Chaos — he  can  teli. 

These  bright  temptations  to  idolatry, 

From  darkness,  and  confusion,  took  their  birth ; 

Sons  of  deformity  !     From  fluid  dregs 

Tartarean,  first  they  rose  to  masses  rude ; 

And  then  to  spheres  opaque  ;  then  dimly  shone  ; 

Then  brighten'd ;  then  blaz'd  out  in  perfect  day. 

Nature  delights  in  progress  ;  in  advance 

From  worse  to  better  :  but,  when  minds  ascend, 

Progress,  in  part,  depends  upon  themselves. 

Heav'n  aids  exertion ;  greater  makes  the  great ; 

The  voluntary  little  lessens  more. 

0  be  a  man  !  and  thou  shalt  be  a  god  ! 

And  half  self-made ! — ambition  how  divine  ! 

0  thou,  ambitious  of  disgrace  alone ! 
Still  undevout  ?  unkindled  ?— Tho'  high  taught, 
School'd  by  the  skies ;  and  pupil  of  the  stars  ; 
Rank  coward  to  the  fashionable  world  ! 
Art  thou  asham'd  to  bend  thy  knee  to  heaven  ? 
Curst  fume  of  pride,  exhaled  from  deepest  hell ! 
Pride  in  religion  is  man's  highest  praise. 


N  I  a  F  T    IX.  447 


Bent  on  destruction  !  and  in  love  with  death  ! 
Not  ;J1  these  luminaries  quench'd  at  once, 
Were  half  so  sad  as  one  benighted  mind ! 
Which  gropes  for  happiness,  and  meets  despair. 
How,  like  a  widow  in  her  weeds,  the  night, 
Amid  her  glimm'ring  tapers,  silent  sits  ! 
How  sorrowful,  how  desolate,  she  weeps 
Perpetual  dews,  and  saddens  nature's  scene  ! 
A  scene  more  sad  sin  makes  the  darken'd  soul ; 
All  comfort  kills,  nor  leaves  one  spark  alive. 
Tho'  blind  of  heart,  still  open  is  thine  eye : 
f  Why  such  magnificence  in  all  thou  seest  ? 
Of  matter's  grandeur,  know,  one  end  is  this. 
To  tell  the  rational,  who  gazes  on  it — 
"  Tho'  that  immensely  great,  still  greater  he. 
Whose  breast,  capacious,  can  embrace,  and  lodge, 
Unburden'd,  nature's  universal  scheme  ; 
Can  grasp  creation  with  a  single  thought ; 
Creation  grasp  ;  and  not  exclude  its  Sire" — 
To  tell  him  farther — "  It  behoves  him  much 
To  guard  th'  important,  yet-depending  fate 
Of  being,  brighter  than  a  thousand  suns ; 


448  THE     CONSOLATION. 

One  single  ray  of  thought  outshines  them  all."— 
And  if  man  hears  obedient,  soon  he'll  soar 
Superior  heights,  and  on  his  purple  wing. 
His  purple  wing  bedrop'd  with  eyes  of  gold, 
Rising,  where  thought  is  now  denied  to  rise. 
Look  down  triumphant  on  these  dazzling  spheres. 

Why  then  persist  ? — no  mortal  ever  liv'd 
But,  dying,  he  pronounc'd  (when  words  are  true !) 
The  whole  that  charms  thee,  absolutely  vain ; 
Vain  and  far  worse ! — Think  thou,  with  dying  men  ; 
0  condescend  to  think  as  angels  think ! 
O  tolerate  a  chance  for  happiness  ! 
Our  nature  such,  ill  choice  ensures  ill  fate ; 
And  hell  had  been,  tho'  there  had  been  no  God. 
Dost  thou  not  know,  my  new  astronomer  ! 
Earth,  turning  from  the  sun,  brings  night  to  man  ? 
Man,  turning  from  his  God,  brings  endless  night ; 
Where  thou  canst  read  no  morals,  find  no  friend, 
Amend  no  manners,  and  expect  no  peace. 
How  deep  the  darkness !  and  the  groan,  how  loud  ! 
And  far,  how  far,  from  lambent  are  the  flames  ! 
Such  is  Lorenzo's  purchase !  such  his  praise  ! 


NIGHT    IX.  449 


The  proud,  the  politic,  Lorenzo's  praise  ! 
Tho'  in  his  ear,  and  level'd  at  his  heart, 
I  've  half  read  o'er  the  volume  of  the  skies. 

For  think  not  thou  hast  heard  all  this  from  me ; 
My  song  but  echoes  what  great  Nature  speaks  ; 
What  has  she  spoken  ?     Thus  the  goddess  spoke, 
Thus  speaks  forever : — "  Place  at  nature's  head, 
A  sov'reign,  which  o'er  all  things  rolls  his  eye, 
Extends  his  wing,  promulgates  his  commands. 
But,  above  all,  diffuses  endless  good  ; 
To  whom,  for  sure  redress,  the  wrong'd  may  fly  ; 
The  vile,  for  mercy  ;  and  the  pain'd,  for  peace ; 
By  whom  the  various  tenants  of  these  spheres. 
Diversified  in  fortunes,  place,  and  powers, 
Rais'd  in  enjoyment,  as  in  worth  they  rise. 
Arrive  at  length  (if  worthy  such  approach) 
At  that  blest  fountain-head,  from  which  they  stream 
Where  conflict  past  redoubles  present  joy  ; 
And  present  joy  looks  forward  on  increase  ; 
And  that  on  more  ;  no  period !  ev'rr      ip 
A  double  boon !  a  promise,  and  a  bliss." 
How  easy  sits  this  scheme  on  human  hearts ! 


450  THE     CONBOLATION. 

It  suits  their  make ;  it  soothes  their  vast  desires ; 

Passion  is  pleas'd  ;  and  reason  asks  no  more  ; 

'Tis  rational !  'tis  great ! — But  what  is  thine  ? 

It  darkens  !  shocks  !  excruciates  !  and  confounds  ! 

Leaves  us  quite  naked,  both  of  help,  and  hope. 

Sinking  from  bad  to  worse  ;  few  years,  the  sport 

Of  fortune  ;  then,  the  morsel  of  despair. 

Say,  then,  Lorenzo  !  (for  thou  know'st  it  well) 

What 's  vice  ? — Mere  want  of  compass  in  our  thought. 

Religion,  what  ? — The  proof  of  common-sense  ; 

How  art  thou  hooted,  where  the  least  prevails  ! 

Is  it  my  fault,  if  these  truths  call  thee  fool  ? 

And  thou  shalt  never  be  miscall'd  by  me. 

Can  neither  shame,  nor  terror,  stand  thy  friend  ? 

And  art  thou  still  an  insect  in  the  mire  ? 

How,  like  thy  guardian  angel,  have  I  flown ; 

Snatch'd  thee  from  earth ;  escorted  thee  thro'  all 

Th'  ethereal  armies ;  walk'd  thee,  like  a  god, 

Thro'  splendors  of  first  magnitude,  arrang'd 

On  either  hand ;  clouds  thrown  beneath  thy  feet  ; 

Close-cruis'd  on  the  bright  Paradise  of  God  ; 

And  almost  introduced  thee  to  the  Throne ! 


NIGHT     IX.  451 


And  art  thou  still  carousing,  for  delight, 
Rank  poison  ;  first,  fermenting  to  mere  froth, 
And  then  subsiding  into  final  gall  ? 
To  beings  of  sublime,  immortal  make. 
How  shocking  is  all  joy,  whose  end  is  sure ! 
Such  joy  more  shocking  still,  the  more  it  charms  ! 
And  dost  thou  choose  what  ends,  ere  well  begun  ? 
And  infamous,  as  short  ?     And  dost  thou  choose 
(Thou,  to  whose  palate  glory  is  so  sweet) 
To  wade  into  perdition,  thro'  contempt, 
Not  of  poor  bigots  only,  but  thy  own  ? 
For  I  have  peep'd  into  thy  cover'd  heart, 
And  seen  it  blush  beneath  a  boastful  brow ; 
For,  by  strong  guilt's  most  violent  assault. 
Conscience  is  but  disabled,  not  destroy'd. 

0  thou  most  awful  being  and  most  vain ! 
Thy  will,  how  frail !  how  glorious  is  thy  power  ! 
Tho'  dread  Eternity  has  sown  her  seeds 
Of  bhss,  and  woe,  in  thy  despotic  breast ; 
Tho'  Heav'n,  and  hell,  depend  upon  thy  choice ; 
A  butterfly  comes  'cross,  and  both  are  fled. 
Is  this  a  picture  of  a  rational  ? 


452  THE     CONSOLATION. 

This  horrid  image,  shall  it  be  most  just  ? 
Lorenzo !     No  it  cannot, — shall  not  be, 
If  there  is  force  in  reason ;  or,  in  sounds 
Chanted  beneath  the  glimpses  of  the  moon, 
A  magic,  at  this  planetary  hour. 
When  slumber  locks  the  general  lip,  and  dreams 
Thro'  senseless  mazes,  hunt  souls  uninspired. 
Attend — the  sacred  mysteries  begin — 
My  solemn  night-born  adjuration  hear ; 
Hear,  and  I  '11  raise  thy  spirit  from  the  dust ; 
While  the  stars  gaze  on  this  enchantment  new ; 
Enchantment,  not  infernal,  but  divine  ! 

"  By  silence,  death's  peculiar  attribute  ; 
By  darkness,  guilt's  inevitable  doom ; 
By  darkness,  and  by  silence,  sisters  dread ! 
That  draw  the  curtain  round  night's  ebon  throne, 
And  raise  ideas,  solemn  as  the  scene  ; 
By  night,  and  all  of  awful,  night  presents 
To  thought,  or  sense  (of  awful  much,  to  both. 
The  goddess  brings  !)  by  these  her  trembling  fires, 
Like  Vesta's,  ever  burning ;  and,  like  her's, 
Sacred  to  thoughts  immaculate,  and  pure ! 


NIGHT     IX.  453 


By  these  bright  orators,  that  prove,  and  praise. 

And  press  thee  to  revere,  the  Deity, 

Perhaps,  too,  aid  thee,  when  revered  awhile. 

To  reach  his  throne  ;  as  stages  of  the  soul, 

Thro'  which,  at  different  periods,  she  shall  pass. 

Refining  gradual,  for  her  final  height. 

And  purging  off  some  dross  at  every  sphere ! 

By  this  dark  pall  thrown  o'er  the  silent  world ! 

By  the  world's  kings,  and  kingdoms  most  renowned. 

From  short  ambition's  zenith  set  forever ; 

Sad  presage  to  vain  boasters  now  in  bloom  ! 

By  the  long  list  of  swift  mortality, 

From  Adam  downward  to  this  ev'ning's  knell, 

Which  midnight  waves  in  fancy's  startled  ey-e ; 

And  shocks  her  with  a  hundred  centuries 

Round    death's    black    banner    throng'd,    in    human 

thought ! 
By  thousands  now  resigning  their  last  breath. 
And  calling  thee — wert  thou  so  wise  to  hear ! 
By  tombs  o'er  tombs  arising ;  human  earth  ; 
Ejected  to  make  room  for — human  earth  ; 
The  monarch's  terror !  and  the  sexton's  trade  ! 


454  THE     CONSOLATION. 

By  pompous  obsequies,  that  shun  the  day, 
The  torch  funereal,  and  the  nodding  plume. 
Which  makes  poor  man's  humiliation  proud  , 
Boast  of  our  ruin  !  triumph  of  our  dust ! 
By  the  damp  vault  that  weeps  o'er  royal  bones  ; 
And  the  pale  lamp,  that  shows  the  ghastly  dead, 
More  ghastly,  thro'  the  thick  incumbent  gloom ! 
By  visits  (if  there  are)  from  darker  scenes. 
The  gliding  spectre,  and  the  groaning  grove ! 
By  groans,  and  graves,  and  miseries  that  groan 
For  the  grave's  shelter !  by  desponding  men, 
Senseless  to  pains  of  death,  from  pangs  of  guilt ! 
By  guilt's  last  audit !  by  yon  moon  in  blood. 
The  rocking  firmament,  the  falling  stars, 
And  thunder's  last  discharge,  great  nature's  knell ! 
By  second  chaos;  and  eternal  night" — 
Be  wise — nor  let  Philander  blame  my  charm  ; 
But  own  not  ill- discharged  my  double  debt. 
Love  to  the  living  ;  duty  to  the  dead. 

For  know,  I  'm  but  executor  ;  he  left 
This  moral  legacy  ;  I  make  it  o'er 
By  his  command  ;  Philander  hear  in  me ; 


NIGHT     IX.  455 


And  heav'n  in  both.     If  deaf  to  tliese,  oh !  hear 

Florello's  tender  voice ;  his  weal  depends 

On  thy  resolve ;  it  trembles  at  thy  choice  ; 

For  his  sake  love  thyself :  example  strikes 

All  human  hearts ;  a  bad  example  more  ; 

More  still,  a  father's  ;  that  ensures  his  ruin. 

As  parent  of  his  being,  wouldst  thou  prove 

Th'  unnatural  parent  of  his  miseries. 

And  make  him  curse  the  being  which  thou  gav'st  ? 

Is  this  the  blessing  of  so  fond  a  father  ? 

If  careless  of  Lorenzo  !  spare,  oh !  spare, 

Florello's  father,  and  Philander's  friend  ; 

Florello's  father  ruin'd,  ruins  him ; 

And  from  Philander's  friend  the  world  expects 

A  conduct,  no  dishonor  to  the  dead. 

Let  passion  do,  what  nobler  motive  should ; 

Let  love,  and  emulation,  rise  in  aid 

To  reason — and  persuade  thee  to  be — blest. 

This  seems  not  a  request  to  be  denied ; 
Yet  (such  th'  infatuation  of  mankind  !) 
'Tis  the  most  hopeless,  man  can  make  to  man. 
Shall  I,  then,  rise  in  argument,  and  warmth  ; 


456  THE     CONSOLATION. 

And  urge  Philander's  postlmmous  advice, 

From  topics  yet  unbroach'd  ? — 

But  oh  !  I  faint !  my  spirits  fail ! — nor  strange  ; 

So  long  on  wing,  and  in  no  middle  clime ; 

To  which  my  great  Creator's  glory  call'd  : 

And  calls,  but,  now,  in  vain.     Sleep's  dewy  wand, 

Has  strok'd  my  drooping  lids,  and  promises 

My  long  arrear  of  rest ;  the  downy  god 

(Wont  to  return  with  our  returning  peace) 

Will  pay,  ere  long,  and  bless  me  with  repose. 

Haste,  haste,  sweet  stranger !  from  the  peasant's  cot, 

The  ship-boy's  hammock,  or  the  soldier's  straw. 

Whence  sorrow  never  chased  thee ;  with  thee  bring 

Not  hideous  visions,  as  of  late  ;  but  draughts 

Delicious  of  well-tasted,  cordial  rest ; 

Man's  rich  restorative ;  his  balmy  bath, 

That  supples,  lubricates,  and  keeps  in  play, 

The  various  movements  of  this  nice  machine. 

Which  asks  such  frequent  periods  of  repair. 

When  tir'd  with  vain  rotations  of  the  day ; 

Sleep  winds  us  up  for  the  succeeding  dawn ; 

Fresh  we  spin  on,  till  sickness  clogs  our  wheels, 


NIGHT     IX.  457 


Or  death  quite  breaks  the  spring,  and  motion  ends. 
When  will  it  end  with  me  ? 

— "  Thou  only  know'st, 
Thou,  whose  broad  eye  the  future  and  the  past, 
Joins  to  the  present,  making  one  of  three 
To  mortal  thought !     Thou  know'st,  and  thou  alone, 
All-knowing  ! — all-unknown  ! — and  yet  well  known  ! 
Near,  tho'  remote !  and,  tho'  unfathom'd,  felt ! 
And,  tho'  invisible,  forever  seen ! 
And  seen  in  all !  the  great,  and  the  minute : 
Each  globe  above,  with  its  gigantic  race. 
Each  flow'r,  each  leaf,  with  its  small  people  swarm'd, 
(Those  puny  vouchers  for  Omnipotence  !) 
To  the  first  thought,  tliat  asks  '  from  whence  ?'  declare 
Their  common  source.     Thou  fountain  running  o'er 
In  rivers  of  communicated  joy  ! 
Who  gav'st  us  speech  for  far,  far  humbler  themes ! 
Say,  by  what  name  shall  I  presume  to  call 
Him  I  see  burning  in  these  countless  suns. 
As  Moses  in  the  bush  ?     Illustrious  Mind  ! 
The  whole  creation  less,  far  less,  to  thee. 
Than  that  to  the  creation's  ample  round. 


20 


458  THE     CONSOLATION. 

How  shall  I  name  thee  ? — how  my  laboring  soul 
Heaves  underneath  the  thought,  too  big  for  birth ! 
"  Great  System  of  Perfections  !  mighty  Cause 
Of  causes  mighty !  Cause  uncaus'd  !  sole  Root 
Of  nature,  that  luxuriant  growth  of  God  ! 
First  Father  of  effects  !  that  progeny 
Of  endless  series ;  where  the  golden  chain's 
Last  link  admits  a  period,  who  can  tell  ? 
Father  of  all  that  is  or  heard,  or  hears  ! 
Father  of  all  that  is  or  seen,  or  sees ! 
Father  of  all  that  is,  or  shall  arise ! 
Father  of  this  immeasurable  mass 
Of  matter  multiform  ;  or  dense,  or  rare  ; 
Opaque,  or  lucid  ;  rapid,  or  at  rest ; 
Minute,  or  passing  bound  !  in  each  extreme 
Of  like  amaze,  and  mystery,  to  man. 
Father  of  these  bright  millions  of  the  night ! 
Of  which  the  least  full  godhead  had  proclaim'd, 
And  thrown  the  gazer  on  his  knee — or,  say. 
Is  appellation  higher  still,  thy  choice  ? 
Father  of  matter's  temporary  lords  ' 
Father  of  spirits  !  nobler  offspring  !  sparks 


NIGHT     IX.  459 


Of  high  paternal  glory  ;  rich  endow'd 

With  various  measures,  and  with  various  modes 

Of  instinct,  reason,  intuition  ;  beams 

More  pale,  or  bright  from  day  divine,  to  break 

The  dark  of  matter  organiz'd  (the  ware 

Of  all  created  spirit) ;  beams,  that  rise 

Each  over  other  in  superior  light. 

Till  the  last  ripens  into  lustre  strong. 

Of  next  approach  to  Godhead.     Father  fond 

(Far  fonder  than  e'er  bore  that  name  on  earth) 

Of  intellectual  beings  !  beings  blest 

With  pow'rs  to  please  thee  ;  not  of  passive  ply 

To  laws  they  know  not ;  beings  lodg'd  in  seats 

Of  well-adapted  joys  ;  in  diff' rent  domes 

Of  this  imperial  palace  for  thy  sons  ; 

Of  this  proud,  populous,  well-policied, 

Tho'  boundless  habitation,  plann'd  by  Thee  ; 

Whose  several  clans  their  several  cKmates  suit , 

And  transposition,  doubtless,  would  destroy. 

Or,  oh  !  indulge,  immortal  King  !  indulge 

A  title,  less  august  indeed,  but  more 

Endearing  ;  ah  !  how  sweet  in  human  ears  ! 


460  THE     CONSOLATION. 

Sweet  in  our  ears  !  and  triumph  in  our  hearts  ! 
Father  of  immortahty  to  man  ! 
A  therae  that  lately*  set  my  soul  on  fire. 
And  Thou  the  next !  yet  equal ;  Thou,  by  whom 
That  blessing"  was  convey'd  ;  far  more  !  was  bought ; 
Ineffable  the  price  !  by  whom  all  worlds 
Were  made ;  and  one,  redeem'd  !  illustrious  Light 
From  Light  illustrious  !  Thou,  whose  regal  power, 
Finite  in  time,  but  infinite  in  space. 
On  more  than  adamantine  basis  fix'd. 
O'er  more,  far  more,  than  diadems,  and  thrones, 
Inviolably  reigns  :  the  dread  of  gods  ! 
And  oh  !  the  Friend  of  man  !  beneath  whose  foot, 
And  by  the  mandate  of  whose  awful  nod. 
All  regions,  revolutions,  fortunes,  fates. 
Of  high,  of  low,  of  mind,  and  matter,  roll 
Thro'  the  short  channels  of  expiring  time, 
Or  shoreless  ocean  of  eternity. 
Calm,  or  tempestuous,  (as  thy  spirit  breathes) 
In  absolute  subjection  ! — And,  0  Thou 
The  glorious  third  !  distinct,  not  separate  ! 
*  Night  the  Sixth  and  Seventh. 


■J'- 


Q 


NIGHT     IX.  461 


Beaming  from  both !  with  both  incorporate  ! 

And  (strange  to  tell !)  incorporate  with  dust ! 

By  condescension,  as  thy  glory,  great, 

Enshrin'd  in  man !  of  human  hearts,  if  pure. 

Divine  inhabitant  !  the  tie  divine 

Of  heav'n  with  distant  earth !  by  whom,  I  trust, 

(If  not  inspir'd)  uncensur'd  this  address 

To  Thee,  to  them — to  whom  ? — mysterious  power! 

Reveal'd — yet  unreveal'd  !  darkness  in  light ! 

Number  in  unity  !  our  joy !  our  dread  ! 

The  triple  bolt  that  lays  all  wrong  in  ruin ! 

That  animates  all  right,  the  triple  sun  ! 

Sun  of  the  soul !  her  never-setting  sun ! 

Triune,  unutterable,  unconceiv'd, 

Absconding,  yet  demonstrable,  great  God  ! 

Greater  than  greatest !  better  than  the  best ! 

Kinder  than  kindest !  with  soft  pity's  eye, 

Or  (stronger  still  to  speak  it)  with  thine  own. 

From  thy  bright  home,  from  that  high  firmament, 

Where  thou,  from  all  eternity,  hast  dwelt ; 

Beyond  archangels'  unassisted  ken  ; 

From  far  above  what  mortals  highest  call ; 


462  THE     CONSOLATION. 

From  elevation's  pinnacle ;  look  down, 

Through — what  ?  confounding  interval !  thro'  all, 

And  more,  than  lab'ring  fancy  can  conceive ; 

Thro'  radiant  ranks  of  essences  unknown ; 

Thro'  hierarchies  from  hierarchies  detach'd 

Round  various  banners  of  Omnipotence, 

With  endless  change  of  rapturous  duties  fir'd  ; 

Thro'  wond'rous  beings'  interposing  swarms, 

All  clust'ring  at  the  call,  to  dwell  in  Thee  ; 

Thro'  this  wide  waste  of  worlds  ;  this  vista  vast. 

All  sanded  o'er  with  suns  ;  suns  turn'd  to  night 

Before  thy  feeblest  beam — look  down — down — down, 

On  a  poor  breathing  particle  in  dust, 

Or,  lower, — an  immortal  in  his  crimes. 

His  crimes  forgive !  forgive  his  virtues,  too  ! 

Those  smaller  faults ;  half-converts  to  the  right. 

Nor  let  me  close  these  eyes,  which  never  more 

May  see  the  sun  (tho'  night's  descending  scale 

Now  weighs  up  morn),  unpitied,  and  unblest ! 

In  thy  displeasure  dwells  eternal  pain ; 

Pain,  our  aversion ;  pain,  which  strikes  me  now ; 

And,  since  all  pain  is  terrible  to  man, 


NIGHT     IX.  463 


Tho*  transient,  terrible ;  at  thy  good  hour, 
Gently,  ah  gently,  lay  me  in  my  bed. 
My  cJay-cold  bed !  by  nature,  now,  so  near ; 
By  nature,  near ;  still  nearer  by  disease  ! 
Till  then,  be  this,  an  emblem  of  my  grave ; 
Let  it  out- preach  the  preacher ;  ev'ry  night 
Let  it  outcry  the  boy  at  Philip's  ear ; 
That  tongue  of  death  !  that  herald  of  the  tomb ! 
And  whsn  (the  shelter  of  thy  wing  implored) 
My  senses,  sooth'd,  shall  sink  in  soft  repose  ; 
0  sink  this  truth  still  deeper  in  my  soul, 
Suggested  by  my  pillow,  sign'd  by  fate. 
First,  in  fate's  volume,  at  the  page  of  man — 
Man's  sickly  soul,  tho'  turn'd  and  toss'd  forever, 
From  side  to  side,  can  rest  on  nought  but  Thee ; 
Here,  in  full  trust ;  hereafter,  in  full  joy. 
On  Thee,  the  promis'd,  sure,  eternal  down 
Of  spirits  toil'd  in  travel  thro'  this  vale. 
Nor  of  that  pillow  shall  my  soul  despond ; 
For — love  almighty !  love  almighty  (sing. 
Exult,  creation !)  love  almighty,  reigns ! 


464  THE     CONSOLATION. 

That  death  of  death !  that  cordial  of  despair ! 
And  loud  eternity's  triumphant  song ! 

"  Of  whom,  no  more  : — for,  O  thou  Patron- God ! 
Thou  God,  and  Mortal !  thence  more  God  to  man ! 
Man's  theme  eternal !  man's  eternal  theme  ! 
Thou  canst  not  'scape  uninjur'd  from  our  praise. 
Uninjur'd  from  our  praise  can  He  escape, 
Who,  disembosom'd  from  the  Father,  bows 
The  Heav'n  of  Heav'ns,  to  kiss  the  distant  earth, 
Breathes  out  in  agonies  a  sinless  soul ! 
Against  the  cross  death's  iron  sceptre  breaks ! 
From  famish'd  ruin  plucks  her  human  prey ! 
Throws  wide  the  gates  celestial  to  his  foes  ! 
Their  gratitude,  for  such  a  boundless  debt. 
Deputes  their  suff' ring  brothers  to  receive  ! 
And,  if  deep  human  guilt  in  payment  fails ; 
As  deeper  guilt,  prohibits  our  despair ! 
Injoins  it,  as  our  duty,  to  rejoice  ! 
And  (to  close  all),  omnipotently  kind. 
Takes  his  dehghts  among  the  sons  of  Men."* 

*  Prov,  chap,  viii. 


NIGHT     IX.  465 


What  words  are  these ! — And  did  they  come  from 
Heaven  ? 
And  were  they  spoke  to  man  ?  to  guilty  man  ? 
What  are  all  mysteries  to  love  like  this ! 
The  song  of  Angels,  all  the  melodies 
Of  choral  gods,  are  wafted  in  the  sound  ; 
Heal  and  exhilarate  the  broken  heart, 
Tho'  plung'd,  before,  in  horrors  dark  as  night ; 
Rich  prelibation  of  consummate  joy  ! 
Nor  wait  we  dissolution  to  be  blest. 

This  final  effort  of  the  moral  muse, 
How  justly  titled  !*  nor  for  me  alone ; 
For  all  that  read  ;  what  spirit  of  support, 
What  heights  of  Consolation,  crown  my  song  ? 

Then,  farewell  Night  !  of  darkness,  now,  no  more : 
Joy  breaks,  shines,  triumphs ;  'tis  eternal  Day. 
Shall  that  which  rises  out  of  nought  complain 
Of  a  few  evils,  paid  with  endless  joys  ? 

*  The  Consolation. 


20* 


466  THE     CONSOLATION. 

My  soul !  henceforth,  in  sweetest  union  join 
The  two  supports  of  human  happiness, 
Which  some,  erroneous,  think  can  never  meet ; 
True  taste  of  hfe,  and  constant  thought  of  death  ; 
The  thought  of  death,  sole  victor  of  its  dread ; 
Hope  be  thy  joy,  and  probity  thy  skill ; 
Thy  patron,  he,  whose  diadem  has  dropp'd 
Yon  gems  of  Heav'n  ;  eternity,  thy  prize; 
And  leave  the  racers  of  the  world  their  own. 
Their  feather,  and  their  froth,  for  endless  toils  : 
They  part  with  all  for  that  which  is  not  bread  ; 
They  mortify,  they  starve,  on  wealth,  fame,  power ; 
And  laugh  to  scorn  the  fools  that  aim  at  more. 
How  must  a  spirit  late  escap'd  from  earth, 
Suppose  Philander's,  Lucia's,  or  Narcissa's, 
The  truth  of  things,  new  blazing  in  its  eye, 
Look  back,  astonish'd,  on  the  ways  of  men. 
Whose  lives'  whole  drift  is  to  forget  their  graves  ! 
And  when  our  present  privilege  is  past, 
To  scourge  us  with  due  sense  of  its  abuse. 
The  same  -astonishment  will  seize  us  all. 
What  then  must  pain  us,  would  preserve  us  now. 


NIGHT     IX.  467 


Lorenzo  !  'tis  not  yet  too  late :  Lorenzo ! 
Seize  wisdom,  ere  'tis  torment  to  be  wise  ;  - 
That  is,  seize  wisdom,  ere  she  seizes  thee. 
For,  what,  my  small  philosoper  !  is  hell ! 
'Tis  nothing  but  full  knowledge  of  the  truth. 
When  truth,  resisted  long,  is  sworn  our  foe  ; 
And  calls  eternity  to  do  her  right. 

Thus,  darkness  aiding  intellectual  light. 
And  sacred  silence  whisp'ring  truths  divine, 
And  truths  divine  converting  pain  to  peace, 
My  song  the  midnight  raven  has  outwing'd. 
And  shot,  ambitious  of  unbounded  scenes, 
Beyond  the  flaming  limits  of  the  world, 
Her  gloomy  flight.     But  what  avails  the  flight 
Of  fancy  when  our  hearts  remam  below  ? 
Virtue  abounds  in  flatterers,  and  foes  ; 
Tis  pride,  to  praise  her ;  penance,  to  perform. 
To  more  than  words,  to  more  than  worth  of  tongue, 
Lorenzo  !  rise,  at  this  auspicious  houi' ; 
An  hour,  when  Heav'n  's  most  intimate  with  man  ; 
When,  like  a  falling  star,  the  ray  divine 
Glides  swift  into  the  bosom  of  the  just ; 


468  THE     CONSOLATION. 

And  just  are  all,  determin'd  to  reclaim  ; 
Which  sets  that  title  high,  within  thy  reach. 
Awake,  then,  thy  Philander  calls :  awake  ! 
Thou,  who  shalt  wake,  when  the  creation  sleeps  ; 
When,  like  a  taper,  all  these  suns  expire  ; 
When  time,  like  him  of  Gaza  in  his  wrath. 
Plucking  the  pillars  that  support  the  world. 
In  nature's  ample  ruins  lies  entom'd  ; 
And  midnight,  universal  midnight !  reigns. 


THE    END. 


14  ^Z  Sh  borrowed 

KFTORN  TO  DESK  ^0«  T"^ 

LOAN  DEPT.     ^^^ 

TH.  boouls  aue  o;^.he  -  S.  SfS^U  fn.. 
l^L  the  date  '^etN^  642^3405        ^„  ^^,  ,„e 


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